She spun there, in the darkness between worlds, as she had for eons and would for eons more. From her seat, second from the Sun, the Morning Star roiled in divine light. The same light which bathes the mortal world in life and warmth damns her in unimaginable heat.

  She wept in that pain, not of tears but of something akin to hellfire. Her sky was not the precious blue of the Sky Father nor the turbulent gray of the Thunderer but a boiling acrid ochre that never relents. The Morning Star herself could not remember what her own face looked like nor the last time it was graced by the Sun or stars.

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  That was until her firmament was rent asunder.

  A mountain of ice and dust tore through superheated clouds in a boom of sonic fury. It crashed into the basalt surface with such ferocity that the land itself became like water. A glowing orange flower bloomed across her face as rock ejected from the surface. The sulfurous clouds split like an ochre veil pierced by a fiery tongue.

  The children of the Morning Star fled from their mother and into the silent void. In time, most eventually returned to her, some visited their grandfather before leaving home in exile, but one – and only one – fell to the mortal world.