Chapter 35: The Sky Cracks Open
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting golden beams over the kitchen's tiled floor. Eva sat quietly at the table, her small hands cradling a mug of cocoa. The steam curled lazily upward, but she barely noticed. Evelyn and Vivienne moved in tandem in the background, the rhythm of their weekend morning familiar and soothing—coffee brewing, eggs sizzling, the scent of cinnamon toast filling the air.
But Eva's eyes were far away.
As she looked through the glass window, beyond the garden and into the shifting light of the sky, something pulled at her. The hum of her mothers' conversation faded, replaced by a ringing silence. Her breath caught, and a sharp pressure surged behind her eyes.
A memory—unbidden, powerful, and ancient—awakened within her.
*****
Memory Echo: The Collapse of the Cold World
Once again, she was not a child. She was someone older—no, something older.
Her hands, though still delicate, bore the calluses of long hours at lifeless consoles. Her form was draped in a uniform of soft grays and sterile whites, and her long hair had been braided simply, more out of habit than care.
She stood before a massive screen in a windowless room that pulsed with cold light. Outside, the city was a monolith of steel and skywalks, a world where stars had vanished behind towers and the horizon had become obsolete.
Here, Eva was a name in the system, an asset in a hierarchy of intellects bred to produce results. Her genius had been identified early—calculated, refined, and placed into service. She was a solver of impossible problems: energy grids, time algorithms, weapons schematics. Her mind had saved cities, though her name had never been spoken by those she saved.
And she was so tired.
No one spoke to her with warmth. She did not remember laughter. The closest she came to love was a whisper of praise in a project brief: "Subject E: Exceeds all benchmarks. Keep output consistent."
Her meals were synthesized packets, her rest broken into chemically-regulated sleep cycles. She once asked for a window. The request was denied. Wasteful.
And then came the night it all ended.
She had been running simulations—something to do with energy transfer between dimensions—when her hands suddenly trembled. Her vision blurred. The numbers scattered.
She reached for her chest, but her lungs locked. She tried to call out, but her voice was barely a rasp. Her last sight was the flashing red of critical alerts she'd programmed herself.
No one came.
No one cared.
Her heart failed. Her body collapsed. The world moved on.
But someone had watched. Someone far beyond the sterile halls and coded walls.
*****
The Sky Cracks Open
Across the cosmos, in a realm untethered from time, a great silence broke.
Aira.
The goddess, the royal vampire, the succubus, the mortal, the lover, the mother.
For eons, she had watched quietly, hidden in stars, veiled in clouds, her divine presence felt only by those who had long since forgotten how to pray. Her essence had been sealed away, her slumber deep—but her child's final breath had reached her.
And in that moment, the heavens cracked.
Aira descended.
Her form was vast—light and storm, flame and stardust. Her voice was not a sound but a vibration that split the air and split the ground. The world below had no defense against the sorrow and wrath of a grieving god.
Her scream was a tidal wave of sorrow, her tears bolts of judgment. Cities shattered beneath her radiance. Oceans boiled, towers fell like kindling, the machines that had once governed all life were reduced to ash. She burned the sky and unspooled the stars, shattering the artificial grids that imprisoned the planet.
"How dare you!" her voice roared across dimensions. "How dare you touch my child! My innocent child! My beloved who knew no love!"
And the world answered only with silence—because there was no one left who could speak.
Aira's wrath did not come from vengeance. It came from boundless grief. A love that had been denied its purpose. She had created Eva from her own essence and Athena, entrusted her soul to the world to learn, to shine, to live. And instead, they had devoured her.
So Aira devoured the world.
When it was over, there was only light.
And then, a quiet voice—her own, trembling with sorrow: Never again.
She cradled her child's essence in her arms, the soul flickering with fading embers. And she poured into it her last breath of creation. She rewove time, shaped a new path, found a world where kindness still bloomed in pockets of imperfection.
And she whispered: Live. Not to serve. Not to suffer. But to be loved.
She wrapped her daughter in the veil of rebirth, sealed away the memory of torment, and placed her gently in the arms of a woman with storm in her eyes and fire in her will. And another with grace like a river and hands that could rebuild anything broken.
Evelyn. Vivienne.
And then Aira slept.
Her divine form fell into deep starlit slumber, scattered like constellations into myth.