By the andering waters of Creek near the garrison, where the reeds swayed like the hair of slumbering naiads and dragonflies danced in the golden shafts of the late sun, there stood a girl who just showed them the imnse depth of Origin power.
At such a young age, she had already surpassed the three forms of the Origin, gaining the title of Originbound, Primarch.
A Primarch is not rely born — they are forged by fate itself. The title is reserved for origin users whose power manifests from birth, setting them apart as beings of unparalleled potential.
She was such a rare talent with six stars, one which they hadn't seen in several hundred years.
Her na was Ingla — a vision carved from elegance and strength. Standing at 180 centiters, she carried herself with a graceful confidence. Her figure was slender yet curvy, a natural allure accentuated by a handful of bosom, subtle and captivating.
Her skin was soft and pale, almost porcelain, contrasting beautifully with her long black hair, parted by a striking platinum blonde streak that fell like a blade of moonlight down the center. Every movent of her delicate fingers spoke of control and quiet power.
Her face was nothing short of exquisite — luscious lips, beautifully shaped eyes, elegant brows, and a nose sculpted to perfection. She didn't just possess beauty — she embodied it, effortlessly and entirely.
Ingla was unlike any other.
She was the most powerul Origin user that ever existed in this era.
There were those who whispered that such a child did not arrive by chance — that she was foretold in the old prophecies, long before her first breath.
Her existence was a secret, and only these three people were aware. She had been trained by the older woman and Mother supre directly. It had been nearly two decades since Wendelina had found her; even she can't comprehend what she was.
But if the truth of her existence were to be revealed to others, then the realm of humans would fall into chaos.
Beside her stood Mirayina, an older woman. She had taught Ingla the patient art of fishing, not for the sake of food alone, but for the stillness it demanded. The water knew many secrets, and it shared them only with those who waited.
"I've got one," Ingla said, her voice low and rough, the timbre of it wholly feminine, but sothing caught between. She yanked her line, and from the gleaming surface broke a fish, silver and writhing. It slapped the water, gasping—a sacrifice to quiet mouths back in the village.
High upon the slope above the creek, stood Wendelina and Synnova.
Synnova's voice was quiet, yet edged with dread. She was staring at the girl, with her lips hard-lined.
"Wouldn't we face real trouble if they learned about her?"
Wendelina's reply ca not with hesitation but with the weight of certainty.
"Most definitely. They would strip of my powers, flay my spirit into wind, and scatter across the void. Death would be a rcy."
Synnova's expression shifted, her brow furrowed with the cold clarity of fear.
She did not doubt the words, for the beings they spoke of were not mortal kings or high councilors.
They were the gods—and in truth, they were not born gods.
They were once people. Witches, warriors, lovers, tyrants. Through feats unimaginable, through sacrifice and terrible revelation, they had risen beyond the veil of death and ti. They transcended mortality not by right, but by will—breaking the lattice of human limitation to beco beings of eternal force.
Now, they watched the world from the realm they created for themselves, unmoved by the slow churn of peasant wars or crown feuds.
This place was ergauda'n, a realm spoken of in whispers, in riddles, and in the half-mad dreams of seers who wake weeping with visions of grandeur and terror both. ergauda'n is not of the world, nor is it wholly apart.
It exists beyond the tether of physics, a place where thought becos shape and power is as natural as breath. Its skies are not blue, but a great do of shifting auroras and cosmic rivers—living nebulae that ripple and dance with every whim of the Immortals.
The Immortals, or "Ascendants," as so ancient texts call them, were not born gods. No—once, long ago, they were flesh and blood, n and won who clawed their way into legend.
Though they do not govern mortal empires nor send edicts to kings, they are not idle. Indeed, they find amusent in the slow churn of human suffering and triumph. They drift down like shadows to taste the theater of life, to whisper to tyrants and tempt saints, or to place small pebbles in the stream of fate—just to see where the ripples will reach.
They play gas, cruel and vast, whose rules are unknown and whose stakes are always mortal.
They do not ddle in the affairs of humans as a king might ddle in the disputes of peasants. No, to the Immortals, mankind is a grand spectacle, a moving mosaic of blood and love and ruin—a performance where the actors do not know they are on stage. And yet, at tis, their amusent twists into malevolence.
But this girl—Ingla—was not sothing they could ignore.
She was not rely unusual.
She was unnatural.
A fracture in the design laid by the Makers. She bore within her sothing that whispered of chaos and of raw, unshaped power.
To the gods, such a being was not a curiosity.
It was an abomination. They would see her as such because it goes against the creation itself.
"She goes against creation," whispered Synnova, almost as if the wind itself would carry her words too far.
Wendelina did not speak for a ti. Her gaze rested on the girl—on the lines of her jaw, the way her shadow split against the water.
"No," she said at last. "She is not against creation. She is what lies beyond it."
"You are playing with fire, my lady," Synnova said with a hint of a tremble in her voice.
Just the thought of the immortals made her sweat and tremble in fear; if they were to learn of what was happening here, then…
She couldn't even think of the consequences it would bring to them or the Silverspire or even the whole world.
"Am I? I don't know, Synnova," said Wendelina as she sighed heavily.
And in the deepening silence that followed, as birds cried across the sky and the sun dipped behind the trees, the weight of prophecy settled like a shroud.
User Comments
0 comments from readers