Chapter 51 – The Goddess Beneath No Name

Chapter 51 – The Goddess Beneath No Name

Far beyond the reach of stars, above mortal knowledge and divine records, a light shimmered through a sea of silver mist.

Here, time did not flow. Mountains floated like breath. And silence did not mean absence.

A palace carved from moonlight stood alone at the heart of it all—cold, eternal, and alive.

Inside, beneath veils of starlit silk, a figure rested in silence.

Abylay.

Though the world knew her only as the Moon—one of the Five Gods and the second strongest after the Sun God—no soul among the living knew her face.

No myth dared describe it.

No history named her.

To mortals, the Moon was a mystery: some called her a warrior-god, others a weeping queen. Some thought the Moon was a man carved in silver armor. Others whispered it was a faceless spirit that ruled the tides and heard the prayers of women in sorrow.

But none knew the truth.

And that was how it was meant to be.

She lay upon a bed of woven clouds, breath faint, soul trembling at the edges. Her divine form was healing still—fractured from two millennia of defying fate.

Her hands, once radiant, were dimmed with lines of light barely stitched together.

The robes she wore shimmered with fragments of old constellations—gifts from her mother, Cyra, the Ran Queen. At her bedside, an orb pulsed softly: a fragment of the sun, left by Ra himself.

It warmed her, but could not wake her.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

Not from pain.

But memory.

In the silence of her dream...

She saw him.

Sirius.

Not as the boy he was now, but as he had once been—tall, fierce, crowned in black fire, a king without chains.

She remembered when he laughed.

It was rare.

It was quiet.

But when he did, she had always turned to look.

Because the sound had never belonged to a demon. It had belonged to him.

Even now, in sleep, her soul pulsed when she remembered his voice.

"You said the moon was gentle."

"I said the moon was watching. That is not the same."

She remembered his hand closing over hers—once, before the end. The way he had whispered her name not as a prayer, but as if it was the last truth in a crumbling world.

And then he had been taken.

By his own brother.

By Death.

By betrayal.

She had torn the heavens apart to bring him back.

And when even her divine soul began to break, her parents—the gods of light and memory—did what she could not.

They returned him to the world.

As a child.

As a human.

And now, far from this silent sanctuary, he lived again.

In the Empire below, Sirius von Ross painted the shape of her again.

In the world of mortals, no one knew her name.

No one would dare guess the moon was a woman.

Not the churches.

Not the priests.

Not the kings or the high councils.

Only Sirius remembered.

Only he had ever seen the moon weep.

Back in the moon palace, a drop of light formed at the edge of her eye.

It slid down her cheek like melted silver.

A voice—ancient and trembling—echoed faintly through the chamber. Not hers, but her mother's.

"She will wake soon."

Then another, gentler. Her father's.

"And when she does… the world will not be ready."