"Cecilia, we must abort."
It was Eastiel's voice, cutting through the comms with that unnerving calm he only found in the middle of disaster.
"You have landed on the ground, right? We'll land in a bit. We'll meet you soon, alright? Stay put."
Cecilia barely heard him. She was looking at the gods. The sky above them was fracturing over and over, blue light splitting the bruised clouds, the black leviathan screaming, the vortex churning with renewed fury, and they didn't even glance at it.
Their eyes, completely unconcerned with the apocalypse unfolding overhead, were fixed on her.
Only her.
Was she truly that important?
Even her, this woman who was afraid of giving birth to a child who would grow up resenting her husband, their father, for the curse he had passed down?
Who was afraid of becoming the mother of a child who hated the man she loved—
She was chosen… after all? Or was it never a choice in the first place?
Was it simply… because of the way she was?
