"Can the gods be killable?" — Unknown
It was never meant to be uttered. Not in temples, not in shadows, not even in the silence of one's own thoughts. To question the divine was not rebellion—it was profanity.
But Appolyth's sin was not in asking.
It was in feeling.
She was an emissary, sent among mortals to observe, to report, to remain untainted. The gods demanded detachment, and she carried it well—until she lingered too long. Until she let humanity's fire seep into her veins.
She began to ache where mortals ached. She began to hunger where mortals hungered. She began to long for what no god, no emissary, was ever permitted to taste.
Procreation.
The will to create, to bear life as the humans did, to touch the world not as a watcher but as one who bleeds, one who feels, one who births.
This desire was no passing impulse. It grew, day by day, until it eclipsed her purpose. The gods above turned their gaze away, for what she sought was not curiosity—it was transgression.
And so it was written.
Her sin was not rebellion. It was desire. The most human desire of all.
And her descent began.
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