Eye of Judgment

The seventh day of the Rose Moon, 303 AE. Six-year-old Adelia Violette knelt in the morning dew of the Elven Forest, her small fingers deftly weaving bluebell stems with white rose branches. Her silk skirt hem, already damp and speckled with grass, bore the faint gold embroidery of irises—though now stained with dirt, it couldn't disguise the care in her movements. This was her third day of secret practice, determined to craft the perfect coronation wreath for her father, King Alaric's tenth anniversary. "The seventh silver thorn through the third layer of the calyx," she murmured, retrieving a lash-thin silver thorn from her leather pouch. Forged from the broken blade of her great-grandfather Varyn, its surface was etched with tiny gear patterns—the first emblem of the Emerald Kingdom, a symbol of "remaking glory from brokenness." Ten years ago, her father had pinned a similar thorn in her hair during her first visit to the forges. "This is our badge, Adelia. We do not beg the gods for mercy; we forge our fate with our own hands." Emerald Kingdom's rise was a legend of the Western continent. A century ago, Varyn, a knight discarded by his empire after losing a leg in battle, had dragged himself to the edge of the Elven Forest and carved his first oath into the dirt with a broken sword: "All those abandoned by the gods may rebuild their edge here." Over a decade, he'd gathered wounded soldiers, exiled scholars, and even civilians banished for refusing divine sacrifices, founding Emerald City in a wasteland of lava and miasma. Now, though modest in size, the city stood as a defiant symbol of "godless faith"—no temples adorned its walls, no divine edicts stained its laws, and its people prayed each morning to forges and plows, not altars. The anomaly struck as the wreath neared completion. The southeastern sky rippled with lavender as if a leviathan stirred beneath the clouds. The bluebell stems snapped in Adelia's hand, its dew vaporizing into a red-hot mist that burned her palm. A shriek-like shattering stained glass tore the air, twelve streaks of light piercing the clouds: to the left, a great hammer wrapped in lava; to the right, a chain coiled in black fog—the weapons of War God Kratos and Deceiver Goddess Metemnis, clashing over the "Prime Divine Core Forge" beneath the city. "Princess!" The cry came with the twang of a bowstring. Lariel, the silver-haired elf who'd served the royal family for two decades, tackled her to the ground, his jade-green pupils reflecting the gods' emerging forms: Kratos, a mountain of volcanic rock, each step triggering earthquakes; Metemnis, a shadowy blur, her fingertips dripping mist that withered plants to ash. Lariel's arrow struck Metemnis' chain but vanished like a drop in sulfuric acid. As they scrambled into a hollow oak, Adelia caught sight of her father's pure white cape sweeping over the forge tower. King Alaric rode Frosthoof, his bronze crown inlaid with a broken sword, the ancestral blade "Unyielding" shimmering with irregular light—forged from the ashes of the first settlers and Elven blessings, its cracked surface defying divine corruption. He didn't charge the gods but wheeled toward the common district, his blade carving a path to the underground shelters. "To the forges! Use the smoke to blind the gods!" The first divine flame hit with the force of a collapsing mountain. Lariel's magic shield screeched in protest as Adelia huddled deeper into the hollow, counting her father's movements through the gaps in the bark: Frosthoof reared three times, kicking aside falling stars; Alaric's sword struck Kratos' hammer five times, each clash spraying golden sparks. When Metemnis' chain coiled around Frosthoof's legs, the king suddenly looked toward the forest, his gaze locking with Adelia's. He smiled—the same gentle smile he gave her each night while tucking her in—then wrenched the reins free, driving his sword toward Metemnis' throat. As the twelfth flame descended, Adelia heard her father's final shout. It wasn't a cry of fear but a triumphant war cry, as if he'd finally found the chance to prove mortal courage. The light consumed Frosthoof and the king, casting a giant shadow on the ground: Alaric on one knee, sword planted before him, his body disintegrating into golden motes that reached for the sky like unbowed fingers. Agony exploded between Adelia's brows, her vision fracturing into star maps. Her father's voice echoed not from without but within: "When Orion's Belt aligns with Sirius, go to the Gray Mist Abbey in the Northern Wastes... there lies a fragment of the scale that weighs divine sins... remember, Adelia, the gods' power is a tower built from mortal fear, and you will be its gravedigger." When the pain subsided, a constellation of twenty-eight silver stars burned on her palm, matching the ancient carvings inside the oak. Lariel shook her shoulder as Adelia stared at the burning Emerald City. The once-majestic forge towers lay half-collapsed, shards of the Divine Core Forge pulsing eerily in the ruins. She picked up the charred wreath, bluebell sap mixing with her father's golden motes to form a scale-like pattern on her dress, the moonthistle thorn at its center like a pointer of fate. "We leave for the Gray Mist Abbey at once," she said, turning to Lariel, her voice unnervingly calm. "You once spoke of forbidden arts that allow mortals to ascend. Tell me the first step." The elf's silver hair glowed with the fire's reflection as he withdrew an acorn etched with runes. "First, we awaken the 'Seed of God-Sight' within you... but it will bring pain, Princess." As Adelia took the acorn, a nightingale outside gave a piercing cry. She looked up to see a raven soaring past with a shard of broken sword in its beak, the gear emblem on the shard flickering in the firelight. The gods had vanished, but they'd left a legacy: a girl with a star-marked palm, and a world on the cusp of revolution. She traced the constellation on her hand, recalling her father's words: "True courage is not the absence of fear, but moving forward despite it." Fear evaporated like morning dew, replaced by something cold and hard—hatred, yes, but also resolve. As Lariel began chanting, she didn't flinch, instead staring at Orion's rising stars, vowing silently: "One day, every god who abused their power will tremble before the mortal scale of judgment."