Beneath the Light, Forsaken

A loud laugh rang out through a large, dimly lit chamber. Flames from torches flickered along the old stone walls, shadows stretching across worn columns and faded, dusty tapestries.

At the center stood a tall man draped in layers of dark red and black cloth. His short, slicked-back hair and sharp eyes were both dark brown—cold, alert, and calculating. A thin scar cut across his left cheek, visible beneath the clean line of his hair.

His nose was hooked, and his jawline sharp. He was still laughing under his breath, clearly pleased, but his face didn't match the sound. The smile faded quickly, and the severity in his eyes lingered. Even while amused, he seemed distant—already thinking two steps ahead.

Kudur.

He had just received news from one of his spies in Uruk. Whatever it was, it delighted him. His laughter filled the air, unrestrained.

"First, they don't choose him... and now this. Divine irony at its finest!"

His voice was deep and smooth, yet cruel — a sound that could smile and sneer at once.

Kudur moved slowly, each gesture precise and unhurried, as he poured himself a cup of dark wine, the red liquid reflecting the torchlight. He took a sip, his lips still curled.

"Oh, Lugalbanda... don't get comfortable. Fate has no mercy for arrogance."

He set the cup aside, his expression sharpening. The amusement was gone, replaced by a cold, calculated stillness.

"Now is the perfect time."

(Ninsun POV)

The torches flickered softly, their orange light dancing across the stone walls of the temple. I knelt before the statue of Nanna, moonlight filtering in through the high window above. The scent of burnt incense still lingered, woven with something older — something more still.

My voice remained low.

"Moon god, keeper of hidden paths, reveal what must not stay buried. Strengthen those who are tested. Illuminate the shadow before it consumes all."

Soft, measured footsteps echoed behind me. I didn't need to turn—I already knew who it was.

"What is it?" I asked.

Dalila bowed respectfully, her hands folded in front of her. Her voice trembled slightly.

"All blessings that could cure the prince have been tried. None of them had any effect—it's as if the divine power isn't reaching him at all."

I stood slowly, the words wrapping around my chest like ice.

"Nothing worked?"

She shook her head.

My stomach twisted. For a breath, I couldn't speak.

Do the gods despise my son? Do they want him dead? Or is this one of their cruel trials?

My voice hardened.

"Are you telling me my son lies in a temple bed, wounded—and there is no way to heal him?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"The wound in his shoulder is still open, but the greater concern is the toxin—it's spreading steadily. The surrounding tissue has already begun to decay, and the rot is advancing further each hour. If it reaches his heart..."

I turned fully to face her. "He will die."

"Yes, my lady."

I took a slow step forward, steadying my breath. There had to be something else... not just blessings.

My thoughts sifted through fragments of memory—rituals, ingredients, names.

A herb... there was a herb.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Alubane.

Yes—Alubane.

"Apply the Alubane" I said, voice steady. "Even if blessings fail, that will work."

She didn't answer.

I frowned, watching her hesitation.

"What is it?"

She lowered her gaze. "We have none left."

I froze. "What?"

"It was used during the latest cycles of research. Since blessings were considered reliable, the herb was reclassified for study only. We believed we still had a small supply, but when we searched... it was gone."

My jaw clenched. I could feel my nails digging into my palm.

"How long does he have?"

Her voice was a whisper now.

"A week. Maybe less. If the rot spreads quickly..."

I didn't move. My blood felt too hot, my breath too shallow.

"Thank you" I said at last.

"You may go. And make sure no one in the temple speaks of this to anyone—not even in whispers. This situation is delicate, and the fewer who know, the better."

She bowed and left without another sound.

I remained still for a long while.

"Have they truly abandoned him?"

The question echoed louder than it should have. I had entertained the doubt before, in whispers within myself — but this… this was different.

This wasn't just silence from the gods.

This was rejection.

Indifference.

He was not chosen.

Why won't they heal him?

He is my son.

A child of royal blood, raised under sacred rites, trained with discipline, faith, purpose. He was born under signs. He carries the weight of a kingdom on his back.

And yet—nothing.

I clenched my hands in silence, nails digging into my palms beneath the fabric of my sleeves.

Should I look ahead? Should I seek his future — to see whether he survives this?

The thought lingered.

I could.

No.

Not yet.

There is still time.

Time for the truth to reveal itself.

I turned at last, the sound of my cloak brushing the stone like a blade being drawn.

"I should probably talk to Lugalbanda about this."

....

That same night, despite Ninsun's command for silence, the truth began to spread.

Whispers turned to voices.

Voices crossed halls.

And voices reached the streets.

Ereshgal's wound had stirred a storm in the veins of Uruk.

When he wasn't chosen by the gods, it had already sent ripples through the temple courts and noble estates.

A prince—strong, disciplined, descended from kings—left without divine favor? It was unthinkable.

But it was still manageable.

Still explainable.

Yet when the news came that not even the most sacred blessings could mend his flesh, the shock became something else.

It didn't just ripple.

It broke.

In the past, such a thing might have been seen as a test. A trial of spirit. Something to overcome.

But this wasn't the past.

Now, in a kingdom where lineage and divine approval ruled side by side, a wound that refused to heal—after defeating a Wendigo—was more than a medical concern. It was a symbol. A question no one dared voice but all quietly feared:

Had the gods rejected him completely?

Old priests began to murmur. Nobles shifted uncomfortably behind stone columns. Even among soldiers—those who had once praised him—silence spread like oil on fire.

Because if Ereshgal—Uruk's prince—could be left untouched by the gods...

Then maybe the gods wanted him gone.

And in a city where the divine chose kings, no one followed the one they turned their backs on.