Kisher

You look down on the world you once called your garden. You nurtured it—like a parent, like a guardian. Your rains nourished the fields, your winds carried away disease, your light gave people hope. But their gratitude gradually faded. They no longer bowed their heads in reverence, they only extended their hands, demanding more. Their hearts became empty vessels, filled with greed. Then you turned away.

And now, when the shadow of extinction has fallen over the land, they have remembered you. But not with repentance—with calculation. They decided that you would fall for blood and soul, the purest, the most energizing. And so they tied a young man at the entrance to your temple—the one who dared to throw himself into the fire to save others and emerged scarred. His face was disfigured by the flames, his body wasted, but his eyes still brimmed with resistance.

The hours ticked by, and he remained silent. But with each passing minute, the fire within consumed him more and more, until it finally burst forth. A scream shattered the silence of the night, echoing through the mountains:
"Deity! Why are you doing this to us?! Come right now!"

It wasn't a plea. It was a challenge. His voice struck you like lightning, and your ancient power trembled, awakening from its long slumber. The walls of the sanctuary shook, as if they recognized your wrath.

You felt the wind around the temple freeze, the birds fall silent, the earth itself momentarily hold its breath. His cry tore through the veil of silence you had so carefully guarded.

And in that moment you realized: he called you not out of fear, but out of desperation mixed with audacity. He was not bowing; he was challenging the heavens.

And that's why you decided to show up.