The Songbird & the Heart of Stone (Crowns of Nyaxia #3)
PROLOGUE
This is the tale of how a chosen one falls.
Like most legends, it began unremarkably. There was nothing special about the girl when the sun god chose her. He had his pick. He was among the most revered gods among his mortal followers. At every dawn and sundown, countless offerings piled upon his altars: food and silks, riches and soft bodies—every mortal pleasure a god could crave. He was particular with his favor. He chose for himself only the most flawless faces, the most powerful warriors, the most skilled sorcerers.
This girl was none of those things.
The two sisters arrived at the temple with nothing else in the world but each other. If they did not find shelter here, they would be cast back out to die, like countless other faceless innocents.
It always begins like this. In times of great darkness, humans crawl toward the light like flies to the gleaming silver of a spider's silk. These are the souls gods feast upon. No one loves you more than someone who has no one else.
The older sister was nearly beautiful, save for the stench of a hard life and all she had done to survive it. She had scrounged together a silk dress designed to highlight her curves, carefully draped to hide the stains. She had thick, dark hair, lush lips, smooth skin—delicate in all the ways the gods typically enjoyed. She collapsed before her god's altar, prayers spilling from her lips. She swore to him her faith, her life, her soul, all while the priests watched with lips curled in disgust. She was, in their eyes, not the type worthy of salvation.
Perhaps the young woman hoped that the candles arranged around the altar would burst to life as she offered her god her soul—a sign of the sun god taking a new chosen.
But the god accepted her fealty with only vague disinterest. He had been gifted thousands of other desperate souls just like this one today.
No, it was not the young woman who interested him.
It was the child beside her.
She trailed in her sister's wake, eyes wider, hair wilder, staring up at the sky no matter how many times the priests hissed at her to lower her lashes in supplication. She listened to her sister's tearful offerings and watched the priests' disapproving stares, and though she was only eight years old, she understood what would happen after this.
She had nothing to offer. And what would a god want from her, anyway?
Still, she reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around a fragile little reminder of her home. Its shape was burned into her palm. She withdrew it and slid her own offering across the altar:
A feather.
Like the girl herself, the feather was unremarkable. It was small, a dull gold, bent and half-bare from weeks of the little girl's absentminded grasp.
So why did this gift—this child—captivate the god so?
The god's previous chosen had been glorious men and women, flowers plucked at the height of their splendor. This girl was pretty enough, but no great beauty. Smart enough, but no great wit. Perhaps he enjoyed the uniquely mortal slant of her smile or the way her freckles fell across her nose.
Or perhaps gods, like mortals, are simply mesmerized by their own damnation.
Because he paused then, peering through the veil between worlds at this little girl.
The little girl, in turn, peered back.
In the background, the priests grew tired of her sister's weeping pleas. They took hold of her arms, dragging her away. Her sister's protests and the priests' harsh chiding faded into a hazy hum behind her. She lifted her chin to the sky.
And for years to come—decades, centuries—the child would not forget what her god's voice sounded like the first time she heard it:
I see you, little one. Reach out your hand.
The magic came to her effortlessly. As if it burned straight from her heart itself. The clouds thinned, the honeyed sunlight hot on her face. One by one, the candles surrounding the altar blossomed into flame.
And at last, fire ignited in her open palm.
It took the others a moment to realize what was happening. But by the time she held the flame in her hands, the priests were gasping in awe. Her sister watched, wide-eyed, silent.
The little girl saw none of them. She just stared up at the sky, cheeks aching from her grin and warm with the love of her god. She had finally found something that she had been chasing her entire short, fraught life. She would not know how to describe this for a very long time. But the word she was searching for was: purpose.
The sun god thought he had received another devoted acolyte that day. Even he could not describe what he found so charming about the child, but what did it matter? She would be another chosen one to add to his collection, happy to receive his attention when it suited him and easy to put aside when it didn't. She would follow him until the end of it all, just as all the others had.
He was right. For a time.
But what a boring story that would be.
This is the tale of how a chosen one falls. She does it screaming, clawing for her old life with broken fingernails. She does it slowly, over the course of decades.
And in the end, she takes the whole forsaken world with her.