The ash had finally settled. The once-vibrant town nestled at the base of the green hills, where golden wheat fields kissed the horizon, now stood amidst charred ruins and broken bones.
And Demeter, the goddess of harvest and fertility, stood in the middle of it all—silent and heavy with sorrow.
She had arrived too late to save them all.
The monsters, grotesque abominations born of Clytius' twisted craft, now lay torn and crumbling into dark dust around her.
Her wrath had scoured them from the earth. Their roars had turned to screams, their advance halted by the primal vengeance of a goddess whose children had been threatened.
But it was not enough.
Demeter's fingers traced a fallen child's burnt toy, her face unreadable.
Her eyes shimmered—fields of green drowned by sorrow. The air around her crackled, not with power, but grief.
Then, with one breath, she knelt and placed her hand to the scorched earth.
