Morning light spilled through the shattered tiles of the shrine's roof, gilding the moss and stone in a soft, golden haze. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke, the forest still carrying scars from the night she fell.
Liara stirred from uneasy dreams, the echo of screams fading from her mind like mist. She blinked against the brightness. A shaft of sunlight caught on her hair, turning the silver strands to molten light before she pulled her hood over them again.
The world was too bright, too loud. Each birdcall pierced her thoughts; each rustle made her tense. She had lived in silence once — not the stillness of death, but the calm of the cosmos, where sound was song and light obeyed her will. Now, everything was chaos.
Her lips were dry. She crawled to where rainwater had pooled in a broken bowl, cupping her hands and drinking greedily. The water was cold, tasting of rust and leaves. But it was enough.
When she wiped her mouth, her fingers brushed against stone carvings on the shrine wall — faint lines etched in a script she half-recognized. The language of the old fox clans. Ancient prayers, long abandoned.
Liara traced the runes with a trembling finger. O spirits of the stars, grant us protection. O nine-tailed mother, bless our harvest and guard our dreams.
Her throat tightened. "They prayed to us," she whispered. "To me."
The irony burned. Once, mortals had built shrines and left offerings of rice and gold. Now, all that remained were rotted grains and coins blackened with age. Moss had grown over the engraved names of those who once believed.
She gathered the ruined offerings in her hands, then scattered them into the wind. "Your prayers were not forgotten," she said softly. "Only unanswered."
As the wind stirred, something faint shimmered in the air — a hum, a heartbeat of power. Liara froze.
It came from beneath the altar.
The shrine was small, its foundation cracked, but she could feel it: a thread of divine energy pulsing faintly below, like a dying ember. Her own essence. A fragment of what she lost when she fell.
Hope flared in her chest.
She knelt and pressed her palms to the stone. "You're still here," she murmured. "A piece of me… survived."
Closing her eyes, she reached inward, calling to it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then warmth spread beneath her hands — faint, fragile, but real. The ground seemed to breathe, light flickering through the cracks in the stone.
It wasn't enough to restore her power, but it was enough to remind her she wasn't completely mortal. A connection remained — thin as spider silk, but unbroken.
Liara smiled through tears. "Thank you," she whispered to no one in particular — perhaps to the forest, perhaps to the remnants of her own soul.
Exhaustion followed relief. She curled up beside the altar, resting her head against the cool stone. Her eyelids grew heavy.
Her dreams took her home.
She saw towers of crystal suspended among constellations, corridors of silver light, rivers of stars flowing like molten glass. She remembered the laughter of her kin — the shimmer of their tails, each a banner of power and pride.
In those days, she had been radiant, her voice a song the universe itself obeyed. She had danced upon comets and whispered to the moons. The mortals below had worshiped her as Liara of the Ninth Light, guardian of dreams and flame.
But the memory darkened. The stars dimmed.
She saw a throne — vast, cold, beautiful. And upon it, a figure cloaked in shadow, a crown of burning gold upon his head. His eyes glowed like dying suns.
"You would defy the pact?" he had said, voice deep enough to shake galaxies.
"I would save them," she had answered. "The mortals you would destroy for your pride."
"Then fall, traitor."
The memory shattered.
Liara jolted awake, breath ragged. Her heart pounded, the image of the shadowed king still seared behind her eyes. Her hand clutched her chest where a faint warmth lingered — not from fear, but from the memory of the divine energy below the altar.
Her betrayal had cost her everything — her home, her tails, her immortality. Yet even now, she could not bring herself to regret it.
Outside, the forest had come alive again. Sunlight danced across the leaves; birds chattered, unafraid. The world had moved on, uncaring of fallen stars and forgotten gods.
Liara rose, brushing dust from her robe. "If the heavens cast me out," she murmured, "then I'll learn to live beneath them."
She stepped outside the shrine. Morning mist curled around her feet, cool and soft. From the hill, she could see the distant village through the trees — smoke rising from chimneys, people going about their lives.
She wondered if any of them remembered who had once blessed their ancestors' crops, who had once painted their skies.
Probably not.
But she couldn't bring herself to hate them. Fear was easier to understand than faith.
A soft sound broke her thoughts — the snap of a twig.
Liara stiffened. She turned, scanning the trees. For a moment, she saw nothing. Then a flicker — a shadow moving between the trunks.
She held her breath, pressing back into the shrine doorway.
The figure emerged slowly: a young man carrying a basket, eyes downcast as he gathered herbs from the forest floor. His clothes were plain but clean, his posture careful, as if he were used to not being seen.
Liara stayed still, heart racing.
He was human — she could feel it in his aura, the warmth of his life. Yet there was something different about him. His presence didn't stir fear or disgust in the forest; even the birds kept singing.
She watched as he paused before the shrine, bowing lightly to the fox statue. "Forgive me for entering," he murmured. "I only seek medicine for my mother."
Liara blinked. His voice was gentle — sincere. Few humans still offered respect to the old gods.
He looked around, his eyes catching the faint shimmer of the runes on the stone. For an instant, he seemed to see something more — the lingering light beneath the altar — and frowned in curiosity.
Liara's heart skipped. If he sensed her, what would he do?
But he only smiled faintly. "Strange," he said softly. "It feels… peaceful here."
Then he turned and left, disappearing into the trees.
Liara remained frozen long after he was gone. His voice lingered in her mind, calm as running water.
Peaceful.
The word felt like sunlight through the fog. She exhaled, her tension melting. For the first time since her fall, she had been seen — even if unknowingly — not as a monster, but as part of something sacred.
When the forest grew still again, she knelt by the altar one last time. The divine pulse within it throbbed faintly, echoing her heartbeat.
"Perhaps," she said softly, "the world hasn't forgotten us entirely."
She smiled, small but real, then stepped out into the forest path — following the direction the young man had gone, unaware that fate had already begun to weave their threads together.