There once lived a priestess who was loved by everyone in the temple of the deity she worshipped.
Whenever anyone met her, they would open up to her and share their troubles with them.
She would always listen to their situations and guide them to a better life.
Children would always smile and ask her to play with them whenever she came to visit them.
But happy moments do not last forever.
One evening, under a blood-orange sky, an army marched.
They did not sing hymns nor carry light.
They worshipped a god of conquest, one who drank fear and scorned mercy.
They razed the temple where laughter once echoed.
The walls fell first. Then the prayers. Then the people.
The villagers cried, but their voices were drowned by flame and steel.
No one was spared—not the elders, not the children who once ran to her arms.
The soil, once blessed by footsteps of peace, became a graveyard of innocence.
When the priestess returned from her pilgrimage, the air no longer welcomed her.
Only ashes greeted her footsteps.
Only silence answered her cries.
She searched through rubble and bone, calling out names that would never answer again.
She wept not as a servant of the divine,
But as a woman whose heart had been shattered by cruelty.
And in the stillness, something in her broke.
She shed her robes of grace and donned the mantle of vengeance.
No longer the one who guided others to light—
She became the shadow that hunted through the night.
Her companions followed her at first, believing it justice.
But as villages burned under her wrath, they began to fear what she had become.
She found the army that stole her peace.
And she returned the pain tenfold.
Not one soldier survived.
Not one prayer could stop her fury.
And yet—when the fire died and the echoes faded,
She stood alone, victorious and empty.
Was it worth it?
She had avenged the innocent,
But lost the only person who had ever stayed by her side.
He had believed in her, even as she slipped into darkness.
He had tried to reach her, and paid for it with his life.
And that was it.
Whatever fragments of hope she had clung to slipped from her grasp.
She fell to her knees, not in prayer, but in despair.
She had nothing left. Not her god, not her people, not herself.
But in that void of grief,
A whisper came from the winds—
Soft, almost forgotten.
The children's laughter.
The old woman's smile.
The voice of the man she loved,
Telling her she still had something to give.
So, for the first time in years, she stood again—not in rage,
But in resolve.
When a darkness greater than even her vengeance threatened the world,
She stepped forward.
She gave her soul to seal it away.
Her body became light,
Her spirit became legend.
And with that, the priestess was no more.
But in her death, fields bloomed once more where blood had fallen.
A temple rose from ruins, quiet and gentle,
Built not to a god,
But to a woman who once believed in kindness.
They never knew her name—only the warmth she left behind.
A broken soul who carried the weight of a thousand graves.
She loved the world, even when it gave her nothing but pain.
And in the end, she gave it everything she had left.
Flowers bloom where her tears once fell.
The wind still hums the lullabies she used to sing.
Children dream of her smile, though they have never seen her face.
And somewhere beyond the veil, she is finally at peace.
Right beside the god she used to worship and sing for.