I am not myself. But I am crying.
I am crying because I am hungry, and that feels sad in a way I can't explain. Moments later, I heard soft, rhythmic footsteps. They calm me… calm Liraya.
The calm doesn't belong to me. I feel it anyway, slipping over my nerves like a blanket. The fear is still there—my fear, her fear—but it's quieter now, smoothed down by the sound of someone familiar.
I am still shocked.
I am living her life, almost from the moment she was born. And it is not the same as what happened with Akhem.
With Akhem, I drowned. I was pulled under and made to watch, and there was no space for "me" in the memory. But with Liraya…
With Liraya, I share her emotions and senses, yet I keep my own thoughts. I can think while she feels. Maybe it's because she is a baby, without logical thought of her own, she leaves space for mine. Like a room that hasn't been furnished yet.
A week has passed since I began living her life, everything pointed to me living it all the way through.
How many years will pass? Will I return in an instant like before? Or will my body remain in that warehouse for who knows how long?
But there was no point in worrying. I was here now.
I had learned a few things about babies in this state. They didn't think, they felt. And once the feeling passed, a simple emotion followed, then a reaction.
Hunger becomes sadness, warmth becomes calm.
"What is it, Liraya? Are you hungry already?" We hear the gentle voice of Kalira, her mother.
She was blurry at first, just a shape, a wash of color and movement. My vision only focused when she came close. I didn't know if all babies saw like this, or if Liraya simply had poor eyesight.
Kalira lifted Liraya, and I felt it as if it were happening to me. As she fed her, a wordless happiness settled in, a calm that spread through the body. It felt strange, out of place, yet comforting as the hunger faded.
Later, Kalira laid Liraya in her cradle, and she drifted into sleep not long after.
…
Six months passed. Not much changed, except that her vision slowly cleared. The blur faded, and the world began to take shape.
I learned a lot from her parents during that time. They weren't nobles. Her father was a fisherman. Her mother stayed at home because of her fragile health. At times, she would cough for long stretches without pause.
They are a happy family in Sippar.
Another year passed, and her mother died from illness. Liraya didn't feel sadness, she was too young to understand death.
Her father wasn't.
He collapsed into despair. Sometimes he would stare into space for too long, even while Liraya cried without stopping. He forgot simple things. At times, he would hold her and shake her, trying to make her stop crying, and he wouldn't even notice how long it went on. Caring for her alone became too much, and even in that state, he understood he couldn't care for her properly, so he called his late wife's brother, Zayren.
He arrived well dressed and composed, carrying himself with a quiet confidence that set him apart. Even the way he spoke was measured. It was clear he was a noble, Liraya became his adopted daughter.
…
Years passed, she was five now.
She was a good child, and since Zayren couldn't have children of his own, he treated her as if she were his. By then, I could sense her emotions and hear her thoughts as well. They came to me as if they were mine, only spoken in her voice
I want to run.
I want sweets.
Why is he angry?
I didn't do anything wrong.
They were simple and honest thoughts.
I grew attached to her. It was impossible not to after so long.
Guilt gnaws at me, because I killed her. Maybe this is punishment. No matter how hard I try to detach, I still feel everything.
There's no escape.
Sometimes I try. I tell myself it isn't real, that it's only a memory, that she is already dead and I am only walking through her ashes.
But then she laughs, and I feel it. And the lie falls apart.
Yet even here, I still worried about Darim, about Kisaya, about my parents.
How much time was passing in the real world? Would I disappear from everyone again?
…
In a blink, she is sixteen.
As Zayren's daughter, everyone assumes she is noble.
She stood straighter now. Her voice was steadier, more sure of itself, and her thoughts were clearer. There was pride in her, but also uncertainty. As a noble, being selected for the divine ceremony filled her with overwhelming excitement, a feeling that reminded me of how I had once felt.
The ceremony is almost identical to Uruk's.
"Let the gods look. Let them choose. Let the threads be tied in heaven's loom." The high priest spoke the same words I had once heard. Light poured down from above, filling the central hall, and then the names were called, one by one.
"Liraya, daughter of Zayren."
Her heart leapt, carrying anticipation and a flicker of fear with it, I felt it all. She stepped forward and almost tripped over her own feet. It made me smile.
What will happen? Will she be chosen? Even I don't know.
She stepped into the light and looked up, and heat flooded through her body, my body.
Spiritual energy closed around her. For a heartbeat, it was like drowning in sunlight. Liraya looked down as golden fire formed at her feet, spiraled upward, and burned itself into her palm as the symbol of Shamash.
She has been chosen.
She felt joy, fulfillment, and pride.
But watching her be chosen…
Feeling her being chosen…
In that moment, it became clear to me. I hadn't forgotten the pain of not being chosen—only buried it.
"She has been chosen"
…
Over the next few years, she trained.
Her divine edict was: "Always act according to what you believe is right."
But even as she heard it, she took it seriously. Just as I'd expected after watching her grow. It is a deceptive edict. Because what one believes is right, what one feels, and what the law demands, rarely align. Still, as a chosen of Shamash in Sippar, she lived under constant expectation.
With her Edict, she received her first rune, a blinding flash where she traced it. Everything divine I never had, I now feel it.
She trained with weapons for the first time, testing different forms until she settled on two short swords. Her rune worked well as a distraction, creating brief openings, and those blades let her take advantage of them without hesitation. As she trained, I watched closely. I had always trained with a single sword, yet seeing her wield two blades, I found myself drawn to their speed and precision.
It was during those sessions that I began to truly understand how spiritual energy really worked. It wasn't enough to simply spread the energy over the body. To strengthen any part of it, you had to direct the energy there and impose your will on it, telling it what you wanted. Without that, it did nothing.
…
At twenty-two, she became consecrated. To reach that stage, she had to fully understand her edict, its meaning, and what her god was trying to teach her through it.
She received a second rune: a needle-thin projectile of light. It was fast, not particularly strong. Along with it, she also gained a divine technique, something I had never seen before. That technique allowed her to expand her abilities. She could create flashes in several places at once, and shape multiple light needles. But after tracing the rune, she had to continue the divine trace, writing in a strange language no one understood. As long as the trace was correct, it worked. The process, however, consumed far more spiritual energy.
But not everything was learning. Advancing so quickly to consecrated came with consequences.
Sippar was not ruled by a king. It was governed by a council of high chosen, and when an initiate proved skilled enough, they were placed under the authority of one of them. Given her abilities—and how suited they were for combat—she was assigned to a high chosen who led hunts. Not only against monsters, but against enemy chosen as well.
Her Edict slowly became a curse. There were times she didn't want to punish, times she looked at a trembling figure in chains and felt doubt settle in her chest. But she believed it was right. And believing that, she had no choice but to act.
Then she carried out her first execution. I felt it like a crack running up my spine. She stood over the one kneeling before her, short swords in hand. Her grip was steady, but her mind was not.
She didn't want to do it, but she believed it was right. Her hand moved on its own, tracing the rune, and a needle of light pierced the temple in a brief flash.
To avoid the responsibility, she tried to distance herself, but others stepped in to take her place. And when they did, the punishments grew harsher, the cruelty more careless, the justice less precise.
So she returned, telling herself she had to, but she never gave everything she could. Her performance suffered, and she never truly advanced. She paid the price, accepted it, and moved on.