Two thousand years had passed.
The city of the goddess had grown beyond imagination.
From a single settlement, it had expanded into a vast civilization, where towering structures reached toward the heavens, roads stretched to distant lands, and fields of golden wheat swayed beneath the sun.
It was no longer just a city.
It was a kingdom.
And at its heart, standing atop the peak of the sacred mountain, was the house of the goddess—a grand temple carved from the very bones of the earth, its spires piercing the sky like a stairway to the divine.
Inside, seated upon her silver throne, the goddess watched.
Her golden eyes followed the people below as they went about their lives—merchants calling from the market, children laughing in the streets, priests leading their daily hymns.
For two thousand years, they had built, toiled, and flourished.
All in her name.
She sighed.
"Leave me."
Her voice echoed through the temple halls.
The attendants, the priests, the servants—all those who dwelled in her house—bowed low and obeyed.
One by one, they left, their footsteps fading into silence.
Now, she was alone.
The goddess rose from her throne, her flowing robes gliding over the marble floor. She walked to the great window overlooking the city.
From this height, she could see it all.
The vast streets, the countless homes, the grand walls that encircled her people.
She smiled.
Even after all these years, the sight amazed her.
So much had changed.
Yet still, something remained.
Something she could feel, something warm, something familiar—like the glow of a fire on a cold night.
She closed her eyes.
And she remembered.
The first star.
That was who she truly was.
Before this city, before this temple, before the silver throne—she had been the first light in the void.
And she was not alone.
She had felt them before—the ones who had dwelled within her, who had been part of her light. They were not gone. They were here, scattered among the people, hidden in the warmth of life.
She opened her eyes, exhaling softly.
"So this is why I remain."
But before she could dwell further on the thought, a voice called out.
"Do you understand now?"
She turned sharply.
The Architect was there.
Seated upon the silver throne.
He was dressed in white, his form barely touching the world, like mist on the wind. His face was calm, unreadable.
Her golden eyes narrowed.
"What are you planning?" she asked.
The Architect did not answer.
He simply gazed at her, as if waiting for something.
For what, she did not know.
The goddess stepped forward, her golden eyes fixed upon the Architect.
"You remain silent when I ask of your plan," she said, her voice steady, yet laced with an unspoken frustration. "But you speak as if I should already know. What is it that you expect me to understand?"
The Architect's gaze did not waver.
"You have seen the rise of this city," he answered. "You have seen the devotion of its people, the works of their hands, and the path they have chosen to walk."
The goddess crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly.
"And?"
"And you have watched them build in your name," the Architect continued, "without my hand guiding them, without my voice commanding them. You were the one they followed, the one they worshipped, and yet—"
He paused, his expression unreadable.
"You did not command them to do so."
The goddess furrowed her brows.
"They chose to build," she admitted. "I told them it was not needed, yet they continued. I did not ask for a throne, yet they gave me one. I did not demand their faith, yet they offer it willingly."
She clenched her fists, glancing toward the window once more.
"But why? Why do they insist on worshipping me?"
The Architect leaned forward slightly, his white robes draping over the silver throne.
"Because you are present," he said simply. "Because you are among them. Because they see you, they hear you, they feel your light. To them, you are divine, for you are beyond their reach, yet within their sight."
The goddess turned back to him, her expression unreadable.
"And what of you?" she asked. "They do not worship you. You were the one who shaped the first of them, the one who breathed life into this world. Yet they do not seek you as they do me. Why?"
The Architect exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the high ceiling of the temple.
"Because I am absent," he answered. "Because I do not dwell among them, nor do I let them see me as they see you. I do not sit upon a throne where they can offer prayers. I do not walk among their streets where they may look upon my face."
His gaze returned to her.
"You, however, remained."
The goddess frowned.
"So they worship me only because I am here?"
"Is that not enough?" the Architect asked.
The goddess opened her mouth, but no words came.
Was it?
Was it enough?
Her people—these thousands upon thousands of souls—had given her their faith not because she had demanded it, but because she had simply been with them.
She had never wished for devotion.
She had never wished for a kingdom.
Yet still, they had given her both.
The Architect watched her silently, waiting for her response.
She took a slow breath, shaking her head.
"If that is all it takes to be a god, then what is the meaning of divinity?" she murmured.
The Architect's lips curled slightly, almost as if he had been waiting for that very question.
"That," he said, "is for you to decide."
The goddess held her breath at the Architect's words.
"For me to decide?" she repeated. "What is that supposed to mean?"
The Architect remained seated on her throne, gazing at her with an unreadable expression.
"You are the first," he said. "Before them, before their nations, before their tongues were split, before even the garden was formed, you were created first."
The goddess's golden eyes widened. A strange sensation stirred within her—a memory, perhaps, long buried beneath the ages.
"I… was first?" she whispered.
The Architect nodded.
"You were not born as they were, nor shaped as they were. You were not molded from the dust of the earth, nor given breath as they were given." His voice was steady, as if he were speaking of a truth so ancient that even time itself had forgotten it. "You came before the land, before the sky, before the seas. You were the first light."
The goddess felt her hands tremble slightly.
"The first light…" she echoed.
And suddenly, she remembered.
A vast emptiness. A darkness so deep and infinite that even the concept of time had not yet existed. And within that darkness, a single flicker—a single star, burning against the abyss.
She had been that star.
She had been the first.
The realization overwhelmed her, and she took a step back, her mind spinning.
"Why?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "Why was I first? What was I meant to be?"
The Architect did not answer immediately. Instead, he watched her, as if measuring the weight of her thoughts.
Then, he stood.
The silver throne behind him shimmered faintly, reflecting the light from the temple's tall windows.
"You were created to stand against the Abyss," he said at last. "To be the light that defied its hunger. To ensure that darkness would not consume all that was to come."
The goddess clenched her fists.
"Then why did you not tell me before?" she demanded. "Why did you let me forget?"
The Architect stepped forward, his white robes flowing as he moved.
"Because only now do you ask," he replied. "Only now do you seek to understand."
The goddess's breath caught in her throat.
The weight of his words pressed upon her, heavier than any crown, heavier than any throne.
She had always been searching for answers.
But never before had she truly sought to understand.
The goddess stood frozen as the Architect's final words settled over her like a decree written into the very fabric of existence.
"From now on, you are like the mother of them."
Her heart pounded. The weight of such a title—it was not one she had sought, yet it had been given to her nonetheless.
"And from this moment, there will be gods that will be born from the faith of other nations."
The room around her seemed to shrink, the silence growing heavier with each passing second. Gods, born from faith? The idea stirred unease in her chest. Faith was fickle, fleeting—could such beings truly endure?
"But be reminded," the Architect continued, "there will be some who will steal your people to worship them; to serve them; and to fight against you."
A chill ran down her spine. She could already imagine it—the shifting tides of belief, the lure of new deities rising from the hopes and fears of men. Would her people remain steadfast? Or would they, too, be led astray?
The Architect took a step back, his form beginning to fade like mist caught in the morning sun. But his voice remained firm, unwavering.
"Because you," he said, "are born not by faith itself."
And then he was gone.
The temple fell into silence, save for the distant murmurs of the city below. The goddess stood alone, staring at the place where he had just stood.
She was the first.
And now, she would not be the last.