Chapter 5 – "fragment of the Goddess"

  The One Who Cannot Cry

  After ensuring that each of her students had been guided safely to their assigned chambers, Miss Aiko walked the silent marble corridor alone. Her steps echoed faintly, the sound swallowed by the soft breath of wind spiraling through the pace’s arched windows. Light filtered through tall, stained gss panes—images of gods and angels depicted in sweeping hues of gold and sky-blue. The air carried a faint, sacred chill.

  Eventually, she arrived before her door—a white, ornate thing with silver inys shaped like feathers. She pressed her hand against the smooth wood. The door opened soundlessly.

  Inside, her room was as she remembered: cold, immacute, and too vast.

  The walls were pale, almost ivory. The furniture was minimal, all bleached wood and polished marble, designed more for image than comfort. A high window let in diffused light that painted faint shadows across the floor. The bed sat near the center, covered in soft white sheets and embroidered pillows she hadn’t touched the night before.

  She crossed the room without removing her uniform coat and sat at the edge of the bed, her weight sinking slightly into the plush mattress.

  The crystal was still in her hand.

  Miss Aiko turned it over gently, her breath catching for a moment.

  Now that she was alone, she could examine it more carefully.

  The surface was impossibly smooth—gsslike, but warmer, somehow. Her fingers found the runes etched along the orb’s equator: thin, angur lines and swirling glyphs that seemed to move ever so slightly when not being looked at directly. The runes pulsed faintly, like the beat of a heart. Inside the orb, a trapped glow stirred—soft white light, caught like a firefly in a jar, swirling zily.

  She brought the crystal close to her chest.

  The light fred, just a little.

  It was as if the orb responded to her touch, her heartbeat, her breath. A fragment of something rger, something divine.

  But even as she stared into its beauty, her mind was elsewhere.

  Her students.

  Their faces—some brave, some lost, some still pretending this was all a dream—fshed in her memory. The ones who had cried through the night. The ones who forced smiles. The ones who clung to each other, searching for meaning in this absurd, divine py they’d been dragged into.

  And she had smiled for them all.

  Because she had to.

  Slowly, she leaned back, letting her legs swing up onto the bed. She slipped off her low heels with quiet movements and let them fall to the floor. Her long brown hair fanned across the pillow as she y on her side, still in uniform.

  The crystal rested against her chest.

  Her fingers curled around it.

  She closed her eyes.

  And in the darkness behind her eyelids, her thoughts drifted—past the Holy Kingdom, past the summoning, past the ornate halls and sacred rites.

  To her vilge. A quiet pce nestled in green mountains. To the tiny house near the river, the smell of pine and morning dew.

  To the face of her grandfather—the only family she had left—who had smiled and waved when she left for the school trip. Who would now wake each morning, wondering if she was still alive. If she had vanished forever.

  She blinked slowly.

  A single tear slid down the corner of her eye and vanished into the pillow.

  She didn’t sob. She didn’t let herself.

  She couldn’t.

  She was their teacher. Their anchor. The one who had to stay calm, composed, and reassuring.

  Even if she shattered on the inside.

  The crystal pulsed gently against her chest, warming for just a moment.

  And then, like a light dimming in a quiet room, Miss Aiko let herself rest. Not quite sleeping. Just a moment of stillness.

  The kind of stillness only those who carried too much could ever truly understand.

  The Pulse Within

  Knock knock.

  A soft, respectful rhythm—barely enough to disturb silence.

  “Miss Aiko,” came the quiet voice of a servant girl from beyond the door. “The ritual of blessing is about to begin. The Pope awaits you in the sacred hall.”

  Aiko stirred.

  Her eyes opened, dazed. For a brief moment, she didn’t remember where she was. The soft white sheets, the chill of distant sunlight, the weight on her chest—it all came rushing back.

  “I’ll be there… in a moment,” she answered, her voice slightly hoarse with sleep. She sat up slowly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

  Then she froze.

  The crystal.

  It was gone.

  Her hands went instinctively to her chest, feeling the spot where it had rested.

  There was nothing there.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  There was something. A faint warmth. A rhythm. Like a second heartbeat, pulsing faintly just beneath her skin. Not painful. Not even uncomfortable. But… undeniably present. It was as if the orb had melted into her—become a part of her body, her soul.

  She breathed in slowly, trying to steady herself.

  There was no panic. Only awe. And a strange, wordless acceptance.

  Rising from the bed, Aiko walked to the rge mirror set against the far wall.

  She looked at her reflection.

  Her eyes, usually soft and warm, seemed deeper now. As though some unseen veil had been lifted. Her features were calm, composed, but there was a glimmer beneath them—like light shining under still water.

  “I see,” she whispered.

  The blessing… had already begun.

  After straightening her uniform and retying the loose strands of her ribbon, she took one st look at herself. The teacher. The guide. The pilr.

  Then she turned and left the room.

  The corridor outside was quiet. Silent tapestries fluttered in a gentle breeze, their golden threads catching the light. The servant girl, no older than fifteen, bowed her head respectfully and began walking ahead. Aiko followed without a word, her footsteps light and composed.

  Through winding white halls and beneath arches carved with divine symbols, they made their way toward the sacred hall where the blessing would take pce.

  Each step brought a growing sense of gravity.

  Something was awakening in all of them.

  And for Miss Aiko, the pulse beneath her skin whispered that her fate had already begun to change.

  The Hall of Divine Light

  The great doors opened without a sound, as if even their hinges dared not break the sacred silence.

  Miss Aiko stepped into the Hall of Divine Light—and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.

  The students were already assembled, standing in respectful silence, every gaze drawn upward, every breath held tight. The air itself felt heavy with reverence, as though steeped in invisible incense.

  The hall was colossal—an oval space rge enough to house a cathedral within a cathedral. Its floor was of immacute white marble veined with threads of glowing silver, tracing patterns that shimmered with a subtle, holy rhythm. With each step, the veins of light beneath their feet pulsed, as if responding to their presence.

  Towering above them was the centerpiece of the chamber: the statue of the Goddess Aetheria, the chief deity of this holy kingdom.

  She was carved of glimmering divine gold and moonlight-pale silver, her form radiant and graceful. Aetheria stood tall, one hand raised toward the heavens, the other held close to her heart. From her back unfurled great sweeping wings, sculpted from translucent crystal that caught the ambient light and scattered it like stars across the hall.

  But she was not alone.

  To her left and right stood other divine figures—smaller statues, yet no less breathtaking.

  The Goddess of Fme, cd in robes of sculpted crimson crystal, held a sword of fire in both hands. The Goddess of the Waters, formed of shifting blue sapphire, her form surrounded by rings of stone waves. The Goddess of Knowledge, robed in spiraling scrolls, a third eye carved into her brow.

  High above, etched into the vaulted ceiling, was an epic fresco—angels descending from the sky, their forms painted in molten gold and silver, wings unfurled across the dome like divine stormclouds. Their eyes were closed, but their presence was felt. Watching. Waiting.

  Behind the central statue rose an enormous tree—not real, but no less sacred.

  A replica of the World Tree, known also as the Tree of Knowledge.

  Its trunk was carved from a single, massive pilr of whitewood, veined with emerald and silver. Branches spread high and wide, their leaves made of etched crystal ptes that shimmered like morning dew. From each branch hung small lights—spheres of floating fme, each one a memory, a prayer, a fragment of divine history.

  It was a vision straight out of myth.

  The students stood as if turned to stone.

  Some wept openly.

  Others trembled, lips moving in silent prayer. Even the most cynical among them—those who had scoffed at the idea of another world, of gods and blessings—were transfixed.

  This was not an illusion. This was not a delusion. This… was sacred.

  Miss Aiko slowly made her way to stand beside her students, the soft echo of her shoes lost in the sheer immensity of the moment. Her presence calmed them, grounding their awe in something familiar.

  Yet even she could not stop her eyes from lifting, from taking in the impossible beauty of the hall.

  There was power here.

  A presence that whispered not with words, but with feeling. With memory. With ancient light.

  Whatever awaited them next… would forever change them.

  The Ritual Begins

  A deep chime rang out from the great bell tower above—once, then again—resonating through the sacred marble bones of the temple. The atmosphere shifted, as if even the air itself paused to kneel.

  Then, with a soft creak and a gust of fragrant incense-ced air, the central doors of the divine chamber swung open.

  From within the inner sanctum emerged His Holiness, Pope Elrandel Vireos, draped in robes that shimmered like woven starlight.

  The Pope’s ceremonial garb was a masterwork of divine craftsmanship—snowy white yered with celestial blue and gold, embroidered with sacred symbols and flowing script no mortal tongue could pronounce. His tall miter bore the crest of the goddess Aetheria herself—a single winged fme encircled by a silver halo. In his right hand, he carried the Scepter of Benediction, its head shaped like a blooming lotus of crystal and light, pulsing with the rhythm of a divine heartbeat.

  Behind him followed a procession of twelve high priests, each robed in a different shade that represented the gods of their pantheon—crimson, emerald, amethyst, ivory, and more. They moved in perfect harmony, their steps soft and measured, faces solemn and serene.

  As the Pope stepped into the hall, the light from above seemed to converge upon him—not harsh, but warm and divine, like a spotlight cast by heaven itself.

  The students instinctively bowed their heads, some dropping to one knee, others simply stunned into reverent stillness.

  The Pope raised his hand slowly, commanding without speaking.

  And then, in a voice that echoed through the chamber with gentle power, he said:

  “By the grace of Aetheria, goddess of eternity and light, and by the covenant of the heavens forged in fire and silence… I greet you, children from beyond the stars.”

  A beat of silence. Then:

  “The time has come to receive your blessing.”

  No fanfare. No flourish.

  Just sacred finality.

  He stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace and motioned to the priests behind him. Each priest turned, lifting from a silver-lined chest a radiant object—the same holy crystal spheres given that morning—now glowing brighter than before, as if awakened by the divine chamber itself.

  The Pope’s voice continued, unwavering and gentle, like water over ancient stone:

  “Each of you carries within your hand a fragment of the Goddess’s gift, a conduit to the truth of your soul. Now, by her decree, you shall awaken the power dormant within.”

  His eyes swept across the room, pausing here and there—on the bold, the timid, the broken, the skeptical.

  “Return the crystal to your heart,” he said, pcing his palm over his chest. “Let it sink into you. Do not resist. Do not force. Let it become you.”

  The priests moved among the students, ensuring all had their crystal ready. The very air around them began to hum—a low vibration, barely perceptible, but deeply felt.

  The ritual was about to begin.