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❝ why do the gods make kings and queens if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves? ❞
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❝ tell me, what is it like to conquer? ❞
These crosses all over my body,
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Under the eyes of her gods, Zeisan R'yvnia is no one: She's nothing but a mere grain of sand buried in the depths of the vast and lilac attaran seas.
All of her lives had been nothing but a simple flutter of Celestea's long golden eyelashes and would become nothing but a whispered name, a misty memory, after the Republic becomes history. She's a meaningless blemish on the stained glass that retells the life of the God that condemned her; easily cleaned, easily erased.
( After every death, Zeisan looks into the gleamy, cosmic eyes of her goddess and wonders if she would give the same compassive stare to those that had doomed her. Killed her)
To her Gods, Zeisan R'yvnia was no daughter. They have seen her die countless times in countless lives for as long as the twisted branches of white light that spring from Oriande have existed (spreading around the infinite universes since the dawn of the Celestials), and in every single one of the branches – in every single timeline – they have taken from her until her soul and flesh become nothing but smoke and shadow. Until her heart — a grain of salt buried in the depths of the ocean, getting slammed against the rocky shore by the ruthless waves — turns into ash. Burnt by the light of the branches.
In every lifetime, the stars tangled in the endless mane of the great night goddess look for one last constellation to join them: someone to bet on, a muse. And in every lifetime, they would find their champion in their golden son and their toy in their phoenix daughter.
