On the morning of August 28th, year 476 of the Eleventh Era, the east had not yet begun to pale. Celas, Goddess of Moon and Harvest, rode her unicorn through a swath of scorched wheat fields beyond Cynthia, blackened to cinders beneath the dim moonlight. According to legend, she should have appeared on the full moon to receive praise and offerings, but all the Cynthians had left to bring were blood and tears. "Why must it be so?" She shook her head, bewildered, as her gaze fell upon a severed arm protruding from the ashen soil. I might pull him out, she thought, then shook her head again. (Pity. He must be dead.)

  "Hey there, girl." Behind the goddess, an Imperial soldier in chainmail, sword at his hip, whistled through his teeth. "What's a pretty thing like you doing out alone so late?"

  "Oh, gods. She's got a horse!" Another soldier appeared before Celas; she wondered why she hadn't sensed his presence earlier. "Worth spending the whole night in this ditch after all."

  "But there's five of us." Men closed in from either side. "How do we divide the horse?"

  The chainmail wearer chuckled darkly. "Shouldn't we be discussing how to divide the woman?"

  "What's there to discuss?" the short one to Celas's right said. "We'll do it like we always do."

  "Fair point." The chainmail-clad man grunted. "Here's the deal, brothers—let's wager. Whichever of us can fuck this woman unconscious gets to keep the white horse. How's that?"

  "Agreed!" They raised their hands, cheering in unison.

  Goddess Celas remained expressionless as moonlight slowly washed over her. "Gods above," one of them exclaimed, suddenly excited. "She's a beauty! Hair like it's been dipped in molten gold!"

  Celas smiled at him and swept her hair back with a graceful hand.

  "She's an elf!" The man stumbled backward. "Brothers—she's an elf."

  "So what?" the short one challenged. "None of you ever had an elf before?" All shook their heads. "Well, neither have I," he admitted grudgingly.

  "Berrick, are we really doing this?" a spearman asked the chainmail wearer. "She's an elf. We should think this through."

  "That does complicate matters..." Berrick pondered. "A naked elf corpse draws more eyes than a dead human woman."

  "Then we bury her," the short one suggested. "Not like before when we hung them up. Put her in the ground instead."

  "That'll work," Berrick agreed. "This battlefield is littered with corpses anyway. One more in the dirt won't draw notice. Move, brothers—dawn approaches!"

  The brutes advanced toward the goddess.

  "Gentlemen—might I ask you a few questions first?"

  "Whatever, whore."

  "Have you come to bring me offerings?"

  The five froze mid-step, as if they'd encountered Medusa herself. "Offerings?" Berrick roared with laughter. "Who do you think you are—some goddess?"

  The short one laughed loudest. "I've brought you an offering all right." He yanked down his tattered trousers, revealing genitals marked with disease. "Here—this is my offering. You'll be swallowing it soon enough."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Celas, Goddess of Moon and Harvest, was genuinely perplexed. Though faith in the old Gods had waned, surely it hadn't declined to such disrespect before an actual goddess. (It must be the stonemasons' fault,) she consoled herself. (The statues they carve for worship must be hideous—nothing like me at all. Hmph.)

  "That's a unicorn!" someone shouted.

  "Stop your squawking," Berrick muttered, clearly only just noticing it himself. "An elf from Illuviλofer taking a unicorn for a stroll—what's so extraordinary about that?"

  "She's armed!" This time, Berrick fell silent.

  "Gentlemen," Celas said, her tone still gentle. "Are you soldiers of Godma?"

  "We are," the short one declared proudly.

  "As Imperial soldiers—why have you abandoned the battlefield? Why come here to commit such vile acts?"

  "That's hardly your concern, lady," Berrick replied, somewhat subdued. "If you want my opinion, the battlefield is where the true evil happens."

  "How long have you been doing this?"

  "You talk too much," the short one snapped impatiently.

  Celas shook her head sorrowfully. "That you are deserters from Godma is one thing—but you commit acts utterly devoid of conscience. I pity you, gentlemen."

  "Do you now?" Berrick drew his longsword. "Perhaps you should pray for us while you're at it."

  "And sing for us too," the short one added as weapons rasped from scabbards all around. "With that sweet little mouth of yours."

  Celas, Goddess of Moon and Harvest, unsheathed her own blade—Ellivēlla, slender yet deadly. The unicorn adjusted its stance, lowering the horn on its forehead into attack position.

  The bloody dance began.

  It was easy to see why these five had become deserters. Even attacking as one, they showed no coordination—their footwork chaotic, their weapons constantly endangering one another. Though it had been many years since she had wielded a sword in earnest, the goddess had little trouble dispatching such rabble—men who would have perished on the battlefield regardless. The fight was over in the span of seven blinks of starlight. Berrick was the last to fall, joining four villains of equally repulsive countenance in death, their contemptible lives brought to an end. Celas, Goddess of Moon and Harvest, had suffered a wound to her left leg. The unicorn set her down beside an apple tree, where she bit her lip to stifle any sound of pain.

  "Bor," she addressed her mount, "go keep watch at a distance. There might be more brigands about." The unicorn bared its teeth, mimicking the smile of humanoid races. "Stop grinning and go," the goddess shooed it. "Disobey me again and I'll confine you to the Elysian Garden." Bor retracted its smile, adopting a mournful expression before galloping away.

  "It hurts," she murmured, tearing strips from her skirt to bind the wound. "How long has it been since I last felt pain..."

  "Who told you to wear a dress? You deserve it."

  Celas looked up to see a lithe woman approaching. She could see Bor standing just behind the woman. The goddess swallowed hard, tightening her grip on Ellivēlla, ready to fight in an instant. She had somehow evaded Bor's notice.

  "I see you're not surprised by my presence," the woman remarked, hands on her hips. "Oh my—were you planning a ceremonial welcome?" Her eyes flicked to the sword in the goddess's hand. "What will you do—slash my face?"

  In the moonlight, Celas discerned a cascade of lustrous black hair and a pure white dress. (Another elf,) she noted, observing the ears. (An Anlad Elf—the most warlike of all elven kinds.)

  The elf woman exhaled softly. "Ellivēlla. It has been far too long, my dear daughter."

  At last Celas recognized her visitor. "So it's you, Nira." The Moon and Harvest goddess sheathed her sword and slumped back against the tree trunk. "Next time announce yourself properly—you've set my nerves on edge."

  "I never imagined you wouldn't recognize me." Nira, Goddess of the Forge, wore a mocking smile. "Even Bor knew me—though it tried to skewer me with its little horn. A goddess outperformed by a unicorn—how humbling."

  "Don't mock me. I'm in no mood for jests."

  Nira settled cross-legged before her. "Don't be so dour, Celas. Worship of the Gods diminishes with each passing year. It's simply the truth. We must accept it."

  "If it were merely a matter of offerings no longer flowing, I'd raise no objection. But Nira—moments ago I was surrounded by five Godma deserters. I had to fight for my life. Do you know what they intended to do to me?" She rolled her eyes skyward. "Even Oris would recoil at such brutality."

  "Oris..." Nostalgia softened Nira's features. "...Since her death, I've felt as though some essential part of me is missing."

  "Truly, she was the fiercest among the Anlad Elves—and perhaps the most exceptional among us all," Celas said, settling herself against the tree. "But ultimately, all living things must someday face their end. Even with the blessing of the Well of White Tears."