PROLOGUE – PART 1
The world is quiet here.
Too quiet.
Deep underground, the air is wet and heavy. Thick roots twist around each other like sleeping snakes. They press into the soil, into stone, into old darkness. The ground smells of rot and time. No light reaches this place.
A woman is hidden between the roots.
Her body is small against them. Her back is bent. Her face stays in shadow, half-covered by hanging roots. Only her mouth moves. Only her breath gives her away.
She is crying without sound.
Her hands rest on the soil. They are shaking. Dirt fills the lines of her skin. Her nails are broken, torn down to pain. Old blood mixes with mud. She does not look at her hands. She does not move them.
Her breathing is slow, uneven.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Each breath feels heavy, like it costs something.
A tear falls.
It hits the soil softly.
Then another.
The soil drinks them without a sound.
Her lips move. Words come out broken, weak, unfinished.
"I… can't…"
"I was there…"
"No power… nothing left…"
She stops. Swallows.
Her throat tightens. Her shoulders shake once, then still again. She presses her forehead against a root. The bark is cold. It does not comfort her.
Magic is gone.
She feels it like an empty wound inside her chest. Like reaching for a hand that is no longer there. The world above has changed. Sharp minds replaced old forces. Cold tools replaced warm fire. She does not hate it.
She hates herself.
She breathes again. Slower now. Like she is afraid to make noise. Like noise might remind the world she is still alive.
Another tear falls.
She whispers again, barely sound.
"I stayed…"
"I shouldn't…"
Silence answers her.
The roots do not move.
The soil does not shift.
The darkness does not care.
But something is here.
Deep. Old. Quiet.
It does not speak.
It does not move.
It listens.
The roots are alive around her.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
Still alive.
They press into the dark like frozen veins. The air is thick and old. It smells like wet soil and forgotten prayers. Her knees hurt. Her throat burns from crying. Her voice has already died inside the roots.
Then she feels it.
Not footsteps.
Not sound.
Something is there.
Behind her.
The crying stops on its own. Her body freezes. The roots feel colder now. The darkness feels closer, like it is leaning forward. Her breath becomes slow and sharp, cutting her chest from the inside.
She does not turn.
She does not need to.
A shape forms near her face. Slowly. Patiently.
A purple apple.
It does not glow.
It does not fall.
It does not move like a living thing.
It simply exists.
The color is deep and tired, like old bruises on skin. The surface looks smooth but heavy, as if time itself sits inside it. It hangs in the air without effort, without mercy.
Her fear changes.
It becomes quiet.
Curiosity replaces it, soft and dangerous.
She reaches out.
Her fingers shake. Her wrist feels weak, like it might break. When her skin touches the apple, her heart jumps. Loud. Fast. Painful. The roots seem to listen.
Memories rise.
Hands pushing her down.
Voices laughing.
Faces turning away.
She remembers pain.
She remembers humiliation.
She remembers losing.
Her stomach twists. Her mouth tastes like metal. Every part of her knows this is wrong. The apple feels wrong. Heavy. Unforgiving.
But the feeling inside her is heavier.
She is tired of begging.
Tired of crying.
Tired of being small.
Her hand tightens around the apple. It feels colder now. Her chest hurts, but her spine straightens. This is not desire. This is not hunger.
This is need.
The roots press closer, as if waiting.
She lifts the apple.
Her lips tremble.
She opens her mouth.
Prologue – Part 3
The woman lifts the purple apple to her mouth.
Its skin is cold. Too smooth.
Her teeth sink in.
The bite breaks her.
Pain explodes across her tongue.
Sharp. Burning. Wrong.
It spreads faster than thought, rushing through her jaw, her throat, her chest.
Heat follows, thick and heavy, like fire poured into blood.
Her hands shake.
The apple slips but she bites again by mistake.
Juice runs down her chin. It stains her skin dark.
Her breath stutters.
Fear crawls up her spine.
Not fear of death.
Fear of losing herself.
Her knees bend.
Muscles pull in different directions.
Her stomach twists hard, like it is being squeezed from the inside.
She tries to spit.
Her mouth will not obey.
A scream escapes her.
Not loud.
Deep.
It tears out slowly, dragged from somewhere below her ribs.
Her chest tightens as if something inside is pushing upward.
The tree shudders.
Its roots tighten in the soil, thick cords pulling inward.
The ground vibrates, just enough to feel through bone.
Dirt shifts. Stones click against each other.
Above her, branches snap.
Owls burst from the darkness.
Too many.
Their wings beat wildly, hitting leaves, scraping bark.
They do not cry.
They flee.
The forest pulls back.
Air feels heavy, pressed flat.
Leaves stop moving.
Even insects fall silent.
The earth seems to hold its breath.
Her scream continues.
It shakes her throat.
Her neck strains as her head tilts back without permission.
Veins rise under her skin.
Her eyes burn and water, but she cannot blink.
The sound does not feel like hers anymore.
It feels borrowed.
Stolen.
Her feet lose the ground.
Not lifting.
Forgetting.
The scream stretches thin, sharp at the end.
It slides past the trees, past the branches, past the dark sky.
Traveling upward.
Leaving the ground.
The scream keeps moving.
It does not break.
It does not fade.
It passes through darkness.
Through thin air.
Through cold space.
No sound follows it.
Only pressure.
Only memory.
Then—
another place.
A red planet rests under a silent sky.
No storms.
No light change.
No movement.
The land is old.
Dust lies like sleep.
Inside a small room made of stone and metal, a woman breathes slowly.
The air is warm.
A single lamp glows, weak but steady.
Time feels normal here.
Almost.
A newborn child cries for the first time.
The cry is small.
Soft.
Human.
It fills the room, then settles.
Nothing special.
Nothing loud.
But something is wrong.
Outside, the wind pauses.
Not slowly.
All at once.
Dust in the air stops moving.
Grains hang like stars.
A shadow near the wall stretches—
then waits,
as if it forgot how to follow light.
The planet does not shake.
The sky does not change color.
No alarm sounds.
Life continues.
The woman holds the child close.
Her hands tremble from birth, not fear.
The child cries again.
Then stops.
The room feels heavier.
As if space itself leans closer.
Far away, deep under the planet's surface, old stone tightens.
Metal veins cool.
Something sealed long ago feels a gentle pull—
not awake,
not asleep.
No one notices.
No one understands.
Outside, the wind returns.
Dust falls.
Shadows move again, slightly late.
The sky stays silent.
Inside the room, the child breathes.
Slow.
Even.
A beginning settles into place.
And the universe quietly accepts it.