The young boy walked beside the goddess, their steps aligned in a peaceful silence. Being introverted by nature, Adam lacked the courage to initiate a conversation.
Inannael moved at his side, her pace unhurried, her presence elegant and proud, as though the vast corridors of the Domain of Hope belonged to her alone.
She said nothing, yet Adam could feel her awareness fixed upon him—not oppressive, not comforting, simply attentive.
The young adolescent felt a growing curiosity. What was it about him that drew such interest from a divine being?
Despite this curiosity, he dared not ask. He was, after all, nothing more than a mortal standing beside a goddess.
They walked for quite some time before reaching their destination. It had to be said—the residence was worthy of a god. Even the dining hall required a five-minute walk from their chambers.
At last, the dining hall revealed itself.
A vast table stretched across the room, crafted from a material Adam could not identify—smooth and luminous, like polished stone infused with light. Upon it rested an array of dishes unlike anything he had ever seen on Earth.
But then again, such sights had become almost normal since their arrival. At times, the young Comorian felt unreal, as though he were merely a witness to an endless succession of wonders.
Beyond the table, a breathtaking view drew the group's attention like a centerpiece on display.
An idyllic garden unfolded before them, filled with flowers and trees of countless kinds. Adam noticed Sophia eating while gazing at the garden with open wonder in her eyes.
Plates of unfamiliar fruits shimmered with translucent colors; steaming dishes released aromas of sweetness, spice, and something deeper—almost nostalgic. The food felt unreal, yet undeniably welcoming.
His companions were already seated.
Sophia laughed softly as she tasted something new, delight shining in her eyes. Hana examined her plate with careful curiosity before eating. Clayton, more relaxed than Adam had ever seen him, was already enjoying his meal with quiet appreciation. The sight eased a tension Adam had not realized he was carrying.
Elyon was there as well—but he did not eat.
Before him stood only a slender cup filled with a faintly glowing liquid, its color shifting as though alive. He drank calmly, his expression composed, distant in a way that felt deliberate. When Adam entered, Elyon's gaze lifted—and for a brief moment, it rested not on Adam, but on Inannael.
The look was intense.
Inannael noticed.
She simply did not care.
After a few seconds, Elyon's gaze left the goddess. He greeted Adam with a slight nod before returning to his drink.
Inannael sat beside Adam without asking, leaning back with effortless elegance. Her plate remained untouched, as though food itself were of no concern to her. If she felt Elyon's attention, she offered nothing in return—not a glance, not a reaction.
"Good morning, Adam," Sophia said warmly. "You finally made it."
Clayton nodded to him with his mouth full. Hana offered a stoic greeting, carefully inspecting a fruit before taking a bite.
Adam returned their greetings quietly and took his seat. As he reached for one of the dishes, he felt a strange warmth beneath his fingers—solid, grounding. He took a bite.
The taste surprised him. It was nothing he recognized, yet he could not deny its excellence.
Rich, layered, unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting. It carried no clear memory, yet stirred something deep within him, as though his body recognized it before his mind did. He ate slowly, allowing the sensation to settle.
So much had happened.
The training. The pain. The fear. The gods. The realization that this world was not a dream, nor a trial meant to end, but a place that demanded endurance.
He glanced again at his companions.
They looked different.
Not dramatically—nothing shocking—but enough to be noticeable. Their features seemed sharper, their posture more assured. They were not divine, not even close, yet on Earth… Adam was certain they would have been treated as exceptional. Admired for their striking appearances, without a doubt.
On Earth, such changes would have required money and skilled surgeons.
Here, it felt natural. Perhaps the gods would speak to them about it soon.
Inannael remained silent beside him, observing everything—the table, the food, the others, and Adam himself. Her presence did not intrude upon his thoughts, yet it reminded him that she intended to speak. From her gaze alone, there was no doubt that serious matters would soon follow.
As the others spoke softly among themselves, sharing their reactions to the strange dishes, Adam said little. He merely contemplated the magnificent garden before him, replying absentmindedly to Clayton.
Just a meal.
And the quiet certainty that this calm would not last.
*** ****
[ Elyon's pov ]
Half an hour passed.
The quiet clatter of utensils gradually faded, leaving behind a satisfied stillness. The group had eaten well. For a brief moment, that was enough.
Elyon regarded the Chosen without fixing his gaze upon them.
He was relieved that his hospitality had soothed—at least on the surface—the unrest lingering in their hearts. Food could not erase what had been done, nor what awaited them, but it grounded the body. It reminded fragile minds that they were still anchored to something tangible.
That, for now, was necessary.
He knew what he had done.
He had taken young lives and torn them away from their natural trajectories—severed invisible threads that bound each of them to family, homeland, and futures that would never come to pass. To a mortal, such an act would have been unforgivable.
To a god, it was function.
Elyon did not comfort himself with words such as destiny or inevitability. He had long since moved beyond such justifications. He acted according to what he was, and what he was did not allow hesitation.
I have altered their lives, he acknowledged silently.
And yet… I possess no certainty to offer them in return.
The irony did not escape him.
Hope was his domain—not certainty.
His gaze drifted away from the mortals and settled instead on Inannael.
The goddess had not touched the food. Like him, she held only a slender glass of Soma, lifting it with deliberate slowness.
She drank sparingly, as though the substance itself mattered less than the act of drinking.
Elyon, however, had chosen differently.
His own drink was a blend of Soma and metheglen—an uncommon pairing.
Pure Soma had slowly stained the mind and tempered the will; metheglen carried the warmth of an older world, its imperfections, and the taste of compromise.
He favored the mixture.
It reminded him that action always demanded the sacrifice of purity.
He took a measured sip, allowing the faintly spiced aftertaste to linger.
Inannael had no patience for such nuances.
Her appetite lies elsewhere, he realized calmly.
She did not come here for a meal.
Her attention was already fixed upon Adam—too precise to be accidental. Elyon narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.
What does she perceive that I do not?
And more importantly… what price does she intend to claim?
He had known Inannael for far too long to harbor illusions. She was neither benevolent nor cruel by nature. She was petty, calculating, and every favor she extended carried an unspoken debt.
Still, she remained within the margins he allowed.
Among divinities, her games remained restrained. She never crossed the unspoken boundaries that safeguarded her peers.
Mortals, however—
Elyon's gaze shifted away.
They were always the ones to bear the consequences of divine whims.
He finished his drink slowly.
Not today.
Today, he was weary—not in body or mind, but in purpose itself. There would come a time to confront Inannael, to question her intentions and weigh her involvement.
But not now.
For the moment, he allowed time to pass.
________
A few minutes passed after the end of the meal.
The plates had been cleared, the scents of unfamiliar food fading slowly into the vast hall. The calm lingered—but it was no longer innocent. It had the stillness of something waiting to fracture.
Inannael rose first.
She did not raise her voice, nor did she seek attention. She simply stood, and the room adjusted to her presence.
"I will offer you my assistance," she said at last.
The Chosen lifted their eyes toward her.
"On Astra," she continued, her tone measured, almost casual, "and here as well."
A faint pause followed, deliberate.
"As the goddess of souls, there are forms of aid I may grant—within the limits that govern such matters."
Her gaze swept across them, lingering just long enough on each face to be unsettling. Then, with a sharpness that cut cleanly through the air, she added:
"I also wish to speak with the young boy. Alone. Only for a few minutes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Hana was the first to move. She inclined her head politely, her voice steady despite the tension tightening her posture.
"May we ask what this discussion concerns?"
Inannael's smile was thin.
"No," she replied simply. "That decision will not be yours."
Her eyes shifted—unmistakably—to Adam.
"It will be his."
The words were precise. Intentional.
The effect was immediate, subtle yet undeniable. Unease rippled through the group, not loud enough to break cohesion, but sufficient to strain it. Questions formed and went unspoken. Doubt took root, quiet and patient.
This, too, was deliberate.
Crisis of trust had always been—and would always remain—a fracture point for any group. Inannael knew this well. She did not need to create division; she merely had to invite it.
The light beyond the dining hall suggested a clear morning. By Earth's standards, it would have been around nine o'clock. Yet none of the Chosen could say with certainty whether such measures held meaning here. Time in the divine domain flowed strangely—perceptible, yet unanchored.
Some of them wondered how many hours had truly passed since waking. Others questioned whether hours existed at all in the same way.
Then the moment returned to its center.
Adam spoke.
"I'll go," he said quietly.
Clayton turned toward him at once, a word already forming—but he stopped himself. The older man exhaled through his nose, a restrained sigh escaping him. He did not argue. Instead, his shoulders eased slightly.
Elyon was close.
That alone offered some measure of reassurance.
The god of hope shifted his attention to Adam.
"Be cautious," he said calmly. There was no command in his voice—only acknowledgment. "I respect your choice."
He paused, then added, "If you wish to increase your chances, you will need allies."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Inannael before returning to the group.
"But allies must be chosen with care. She is not malicious—yet her domain has always been discord among heroes."
The warning was clear.
Inannael laughed softly, a sound light and amused.
"You worry far too much," she said. "Mortals fail all the time. Consequences follow. That is hardly surprising."
She tilted her head slightly.
"And I do help humanity—often, I might add."
For a brief instant, Elyon's brows drew together.
He said nothing.
Clayton placed a hand on Adam's shoulder, firm but reassuring.
"Go," he said. "Just don't forget—whatever happens, we're a team now."
Adam nodded.
Inannael's smile widened.
And somewhere between amusement and anticipation, she turned away, already expecting him to follow.
______
[ Adam's POV ]
Adam had no idea what Inannael wanted from him.
That uncertainty alone was enough to make his stomach tighten.
Why him?
He was not the bravest among them, nor the smartest. He was not a leader, not a prodigy, not even particularly confident. Just a teenager who had been pulled into something far greater than himself. And yet, out of everyone, it was him she had singled out.
Without a word, he followed her.
They left Elyon and the others seated at the table, their quiet conversation fading behind them as they stepped into the garden. The air outside was lighter, fresher, filled with scents Adam could not name. The ground beneath his feet felt soft, almost alive.
He was nervous.
Very nervous.
But he said nothing.
He had seen enough films—investigative dramas, business negotiations, quiet confrontations—to know one thing:
whoever speaks first loses ground.
If he showed curiosity, fear, or eagerness, he would give her an advantage. And Adam knew instinctively that this goddess did not ask for private conversations without reason.
So he walked beside her in silence.
Inannael did not rush him. Her pace was calm, assured, as though she had all the time in the world. She neither questioned his silence nor filled it herself. That alone made him uneasy.
After a short walk, she stopped.
Before them stood a tree unlike any Adam had ever seen. It resembled an apple tree, yet its bark shimmered faintly, and its leaves carried subtle hues of silver and pale green. The fruit hanging from its branches looked familiar in shape, but something about them felt… wrong. Or perhaps simply not of Earth.
Inannael stepped forward and reached up with ease, plucking two apples from the tree.
"Come," she said lightly. "Let's sit here. We can talk quietly."
She smiled as she spoke.
For a brief moment, Adam was dazzled.
Her beauty was not aggressive, not overwhelming like Elyon's presence. It was effortless. Natural. Dangerous in its subtlety.
He quickly regained his senses.
She's a goddess, he reminded himself. And even now, they are probably holding back.
They sat beneath the tree.
"Go on," she said, handing him one of the apples. "Eat."
She bit into her own without waiting.
Adam hesitated for a fraction of a second, then did the same.
Crunch.
The fruit was crisp, fresh, strangely perfect. Its taste was sweet, but not overly so, with a depth that reminded him faintly of home—though he could not say why.
They ate in silence.
Crunch. Crunch.
Adam focused on the act itself, grounding himself. The simple motion helped steady his thoughts.
After a while, Inannael finished her apple. She wiped her fingers casually and turned her gaze toward him.
Her eyes were a clear, sparkling gray.
Adam tried to meet her gaze.
It was difficult.
Not painful—but heavy. Her presence pressed against him, subtle yet undeniable. He felt exposed, as though standing before something that saw far more than it let on.
"I didn't invite you here just to eat an apple," she said.
Her tone was sweet.
That made it worse.
Adam's patience snapped.
"So, why?" he asked.
The words escaped him before he could stop them.
For a moment, he thought he had made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Amused.
"Finally," she said softly. "You couldn't wait anymore."
Adam frowned. His grip tightened slightly around the half-eaten apple.
What was she doing?
Was this some kind of test? A game? A trap?
For the first time since standing up from the table, he wondered if it was already too late to back out.
He was no longer sure he wanted to hear what she had to say.
"Don't worry," Inannael added calmly. "I have no bad intentions against you."
Adam did not relax.
Not even a little.
The young boy was growing impatient.
Inannael noticed.
She took her time, deliberately so, contemplating the quiet anxiety written across his features with a faint, knowing smile. Adam shifted slightly beneath her gaze, restrained, expectant—waiting for her to finally speak of what truly mattered.
At last, she did.
"I believe you have already been told about the gods, have you not?" she said calmly. "Our titles reflect our deepest aspects—our fundamental concepts. They define us. They dictate our nature."
It came suddenly, almost like a lecture.
The kind of lesson Tamiel might one day include among his teachings.
Despite the impatience gnawing at him, Adam did not interrupt her again. He listened carefully, attentive now, hoping she would soon reach the heart of the matter. After all, this was not part of the agreement she had announced before the others.
"Tell me," Inannael continued, turning her gaze fully toward him, "you have not forgotten my title, have you? Say it aloud. Only then will I be able to help you."
The request was strange.
Still, Adam had not forgotten her introduction.
"You are the goddess of war, conflict, and fallen souls," he said. "Is that correct?"
A smile of quiet satisfaction curved her lips.
"Good. I appreciate those who remember who I am."
She paused, then added, "But tell me—among those titles, can you guess what fallen souls truly are?"
The question irritated him.
Where was she going with this?
Adam had no real knowledge of Astra's history. The lessons they had begun were recent, fragmented, and closer to local mythology than anything concrete.
"It's too difficult for you," Inannael said lightly, waving the matter aside. "Allow me to clarify. I am also the goddess of noble souls. Fallen souls were once noble beings—individuals who defended justice, ideals, or great causes. Yet through trials, suffering, or the weight of the world itself, they eventually collapsed… and descended into corruption."
Adam listened.
From what he understood, fallen souls were not evil by nature.
They were once good people.
People who had broken.
Still, the connection to their conversation escaped him entirely. He was no intellectual, no strategist. Whatever she was leading toward remained hidden from him.
"I see that you struggle to understand why I sought you out," Inannael said at last. "Do not concern yourself with it. You will understand my intentions in time. For now, know this—"
Her voice lowered slightly.
"As the goddess of souls, I can see that your soul has become… strange."
Adam stiffened.
Strange?
His brows drew together in confusion.
"Forgive me," he said cautiously, "but I have little knowledge of souls. What exactly are they, from your perspective?"
For the first time, he tried to grasp solid ground.
Inannael tilted her head, as if only now realizing something obvious.
"Ah. My mistake. I forgot that you are a foreigner to our knowledge."
Adam felt faintly belittled, though he could not say why. He remained silent, listening.
"The soul is the immaterial essence of every sentient being," she explained. "It is identity. Spirit. Will. Talent. Personality. Memory. It is the ultimate expression of the self."
Adam relaxed slightly.
The definition was close to what he had known on Earth.
"Then… what is strange about mine?" he asked.
The question carried real unease.
Was something wrong with him? Was this the reason for his lack of empathy? His inherent selfishness?
Thoughts spiraled as he waited for her answer.
"No," Inannael replied calmly. "You are not ill."
Relief washed over him.
He exhaled, embarrassed by his own fears. If nothing was wrong, then perhaps his flaws were simply… his own.
"The strangeness lies in the strength of your soul," she continued. "Ordinarily, a human soul grows stronger through experience. Most mortals with exceptional souls are those who have faced death repeatedly—individuals shaped by long lives and countless trials."
Adam understood.
"You mean… elderly people?" he said, a small smile forming. "So basically, those with strong will or determination. And most of them are old because they've lived longer."
There was pride in his voice.
And something else—misjudgment.
Inannael smiled again.
"You are not entirely wrong," she said. "But that is not all. Will and determination are not the sole measures of a human soul's strength. Knowledge, too, plays its part. And self-acceptance. The deeper and more complex one's understanding becomes, the more the soul may strengthen over time."
She observed him quietly.
The shift was immediate.
Adam's fleeting arrogance vanished under her gaze. To her, he was transparent—a young mortal who had not yet lived enough to hide himself.
The young Comorian frowned, unease returning.
"Then… does that mean there really is something wrong with me?"
The question lingered in the air.
And for the first time since the conversation had begun, Inannael did not answer immediately.
Inannael remained beneath the strange tree, her posture relaxed, her gaze fixed upon Adam with an intensity that no longer sought to hide itself. The faint amusement she had worn before had vanished. What replaced it was quieter—focused.
More serious.
The silence stretched.
Adam felt it press against him, heavier than any reprimand. His question lingered unanswered, and with every heartbeat, the unease within his chest deepened.
At last, Inannael spoke.
"There is nothing wrong with you," she said again, slower this time, as if weighing each word. "But your reasoning is flawed."
Adam frowned.
"Flawed… how?" he asked.
"You assume that strangeness must come from damage," she replied. "That something must be broken to be unsettling."
She rose and walked a few steps away, her fingers brushing lightly against the shimmering bark of the tree.
"That is a mortal way of thinking."
She turned back toward him.
"Human souls follow a certain progression. They begin light. Malleable. They grow heavier through experience—through loss, understanding, and the passage of time. Life leaves traces. Suffering leaves traces."
Her gaze settled on him again.
"Yours does not follow that pattern."
Adam's throat tightened.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means," Inannael said calmly, "that your soul possesses a level that does not correspond to your age… nor to what you have lived."
The words sank in slowly.
There was no pride this time.
Only confusion.
"But I haven't lived long," Adam said. "I haven't done anything special. I'm not—"
"Exactly," Inannael interrupted.
The word was sharp. Precise.
"That is precisely the issue."
She approached him once more, stopping close enough for her presence to fully reach him now. Not overwhelming. Not crushing.
Simply undeniable.
"Your soul is not heavy because you have endured much," she said. "Nor because you possess exceptional resolve. It is not the result of accumulated suffering, wisdom, or self-awareness."
Her gray eyes narrowed slightly.
"It is already so."
Adam swallowed.
"Then… how?" he asked quietly.
Inannael did not answer at once.
"That," she said after a pause, "is not something you can know yet."
Adam clenched his jaw.
"Why can't I know?" he asked. "What do you really want from me?"
For the first time since the conversation had begun, Inannael's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Because it is too early for you," she replied. "And because you would not understand the answer in your current state."
She stepped back, creating distance between them once more.
"Souls such as yours are… unstable at this stage," she continued. "They are still aligning. Still settling. To define what you are now would be premature."
A brief pause followed.
"And dangerous."
Adam's breath caught.
"Dangerous to who?" he asked.
Inannael smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
"That depends," she said softly, "on who is watching."
The garden felt suddenly still.
"Other gods," she went on, "would not interpret your condition as I do. Some would see potential. Others would see a liability."
She turned away, her gaze drifting toward the distant dining hall.
"I did not come here to guide you," Inannael said. "Nor to protect you."
She glanced back over her shoulder.
"I wish to observe the story that will be born from your quest."
Adam stiffened.
"Your mission is likely a noble one," she continued calmly. "If you believe in it—if you persist—then what follows may become a heroic tale unlike any other."
Her eyes returned to him.
"That is what interests me."
She took a step away.
"I will offer aid," she added, almost casually. "Not to ensure your success—but to observe how your souls respond. Especially yours."
Adam felt a chill run through him.
"And if we fail?" he asked.
Inannael's smile widened, just a fraction.
"Then," she said, "the souls that fall will no longer belong to Elyon's hope."
Her gaze lingered on Adam.
"And some of them… may become mine."
She turned fully away.
"Now," she concluded, "we wait."
Adam remained seated beneath the strange tree, the half-eaten apple forgotten in his hand.
The garden was peaceful.
And for the first time since arriving in Astra, he understood—
Failure was not merely an end.
It was a claim.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Author's Note
Hello everyone 👋
I just wanted to say a little hello to all my readers and thank you for following Life in Astra. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The world of Astra is huge, and the story may feel a bit slow at first — that's because I'm laying the foundations. But don't worry, things will pick up and become more exciting as the journey continues.
I'd also like to ask for a bit of patience and understanding. I've just started my first year at university, and English isn't my native language. I'm learning and improving as I go, and I'm doing my best to make the story as immersive as possible.
Your feedback would mean the world to me — whether it's comments, critiques, or even just a rating. Knowing what you think encourages me to keep going and helps me make the story better.
Thank you again for reading, for your time, and for giving this world a chance. I hope you'll continue this adventure with me!