Page 1 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Prologue

70 THOUSAND YEARS EARLIER.

Before breath.

Before name.

Before gods knew purpose.

There was ash. And from that ash, came two.

They did not fall. They were born from the dust of the cosmos.

Dasmyrin opened her eyes, and the stars blinked into being. Stone followed thought. Skies opened beneath her breath. Mountains bloomed from her fingertips. And oceans uncoiled in her footsteps. She was form, foundation, the will to build.

“This,” she whispered, “is what must exist.”

Beside her came Elyistria, spun of magic and light. Where Dasmyrin carved the worlds, Elyistria filled them. She breathed soul into trees. Lit fires behind the eyes of beasts. She whispered language, desire, wonder, and pain. She was motion, magic, the reason to feel.

They worked in harmony; their love threaded through every creation. World after world. Realm after realm. Each one born perfect and alive. They believed themselves to be the first. To be the beginning. But somewhere—far beyond even the first sky—a presence watched. Silent and unseen. The gods of Aetherhollow, who had whispered thought into their bones. Who never spoke, never explained. And who, from the shadows, set everything in motion.

Dasmyrin and Elyistria did not question. They were creators—that was all that they knew.

“We dreamed of beauty. We carved it from silence. We did not ask why.”

Then came the third. Sariya.

She was not born from thought, nor carved from power. She burst, violently and gloriously, from the heart of the first sun. A child of flame and gold.

She danced into existence, laughing, and trailing sun whisps in her wake. Every step she took lit the skies, and from her heat, time began turning.

“I am,” she said, “and that is enough.”

And so, the trinity was formed:

Dasmyrin, who built the shape of all things.

Elyistria, who wove life into hollow spaces.

Sariya, who gave it light, day, and fire.

Together, they shaped what would become everything. Even Earth. They were not gods. They were tools.

But alas, that is unknown.

FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS EARLIER

Before ruin had a name, before gods fell from their thrones, and before fire was given form—she saw it.

The future. Not as one solid vision, but as fractures. Shards of light twisting in time. She watched universes bloom and wither, gods rise and burn, stars devour themselves and be born again. And in every timeline, every glimmer of hope or devastation… she saw him. A boy of fire. Born of wrath. A boy who would unmake everything his father had built. A boy who would end the Divine.

She stands alone in the uppermost tower of Aetherhollow, the sky above her painted in soft, dusky hues. Her lavender eyes glow faintly, the light within her shifting like a slow-burning ember. Around her, the air hums with magic older than any given name.

“They’ve killed her,” she whispers.

A single future cements itself. The death of Dasmyrin. The unravelling of balance. The beginning of the end. She closes her eyes and bows her head. She doesn’t weep; she cannot.

They called her the Queen now, but the title meant little. The gods—the real gods, the ones no one saw—had placed it upon her head. Had tasked her with silence, and watching. But now they asked for more.