In the long-forgotten land of the Endwalkers, Tyric knelt before Destruction's throne.

  His gnarled old hands moved in rhythmic strokes over the black obsidian that comprised her seat of power. It towered over him, a relic of better days, and he tried not to let his mind wander to his fears that he would never see it occupied. The sunlight danced upon the polished stone’s surface, casting fragmented reflections around the dim cavern.

  Despite his age, his devotion to his goddess remained unwavering. He was one of the last of the Endwalkers, the few still breathing who had pledged their undying loyalty to her, despite the five thousand long years of her absence.

  His heart heavy with the weight of time, Tyric couldn't help but wonder if he would ever witness her raw beauty. The years had not been kind to the ranks of the Endwalkers. Age and despair had thinned their numbers, yet Tyric's commitment never faltered. He had dedicated his very life to tending the volcano, the sacred domain where his goddess should reside.

  Though his body had grown frail, his responsibilities remained significant. Each day, the throne required his careful attention. Today would be no different, nor would tomorrow, nor the day after that. This was his sacred duty, and it was one he would see through to his dying day. Edging his way around it, he ensured every inch gleamed under his touch.

  The sun cast a golden hue over the rugged landscape outside, illuminating the barely visible road that led to their sanctified ground—one that had not been traveled in millennia, save for the deserters who abandoned their sacred tasks to their Mistress.

  The traitors.

  He bristled with indignation at their failures, but he took solace in knowing their descendants would burn in Destruction’s wrath once she returned.

  Though his hearing had faded over the years, something rumbled in the distance. He paused in his work, and after a moment, he recognized the low growl of a distant storm. His ears strained to catch the unfamiliar sound, as they had not had rain in months.

  It was a much-needed downpour for their crops, yes, but something about this thunder felt…

  …different.

  He turned, his eyes narrowing as he peered out of the cavern. In the distance, black storm clouds churned ominously, their presence like a bruise on the sky. The usually serene landscape, painted by the gentle rays of the sun and the verdant greenery, now seemed foreboding.

  He dropped his polishing tools, his hands trembling as he reached for his walking stick. The distant thunder grew louder, echoing across the valley like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Tyric's heart pounded in his chest as he hobbled to the edge of the open platform at the top of the volcano that held her throne, his breath catching in his throat.

  The once clear horizon had been consumed by a gray fog. Sheets of rain began descending with ferocity, bending the trees and obscuring the distant mountains. Streaks of lightning lit up the darkening sky, illuminating the storm clouds as they seemed to surge with a life of their own. The relentless downpour turned the world in the distance into a chaotic watercolor, impossible to see.

  Sudden bursts of energy struck the ground, each lightning bolt causing the earth to shudder. A plume of dust rose ahead of the storm, rolling ominously towards the volcano. The velocity and intensity of it all spoke of more than just nature's wrath.

  Tyric's conviction wavered as hope sparked in his chest—a dangerous, desperate hope.

  “Can it be?” he whispered to himself, his voice cracking. “After all these years, could she… could she truly…”

  But he couldn’t finish the thought. He didn’t dare to, for fear that fate itself would strike him down and burn the last of his hope out of his soul.

  He stood at the edge of the massive stairway carved into the mountainside—a path meant only for the goddess, and a path he had tended for the entirety of his lonely lifetime.

  As he watched, the sheets of rain only fell harder, until he could see nothing but the looming darkness.

  The storm's ferocity was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. It was as if nature itself bent to the eye of the monsoon, announcing its arrival with cataclysmic force. The air crackled with energy, each drop of rain a testament to the raw power of nature’s wrath. Tyric's eyes brimmed with joy and a hint of terror.

  Each lightning strike echoed the longing in his heart that his Mistress had finally come home.

  For so long, he had tended her throne, whispered prayers to the empty air, and maintained unwavering faith. Now, the storm heralded what he had yearned for.

  The volcanic landscape, usually so still and somber, pulsed with anticipation.

  Tyric's hope fought against his fear of disappointment. He had survived millennia on devotion alone. The storm's violence scraped away the patience that had defined his existence. He could almost see her figure forming within the swirling dust and rain, a shape of fire and fury mingling with the elements.

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  He took a shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving the storm as it raced toward the volcano, each moment amplifying his anticipation.

  This was so much more than nature reclaiming its domain.

  This was more than a disaster rolling ever closer, eager to swallow the few of them who remained.

  Tyric stood at the edge of the volcanic crater, his old hands clutching the weathered staff that had guided him for so many years. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and a deep rumble resonated through the earth. He watched as the boiling lava began to flow down the meticulously maintained channels on either side of the grand, empty throne. Flames flickered in his peripheral vision, casting eerie shadows on his wrinkled face. He knew he should retreat to the safety of the guarded walkways, but a deep-seated fear rooted him to the spot.

  Over the years, the horn had blown six times. Six false alarms had chipped away at him, more and more each time, as the sacred warning of their goddess’s return had heralded only a brief spot of rain that quickly fizzled out each time.

  And yet, this one raged.

  To the north were the mountains now shrouded in rain, and to the south a vast ocean stretched into the distant horizon. For so many years, the water had been still.

  But not now.

  The sea churned and roiled with an unrelenting force, as if a mighty hand was stirring it from below. He peered over his withered shoulder, awestruck by the surging water that seemed to take on a life of its own.

  Against the darkening sky that stretched above the ocean, a monstrous hurricane sprang to life. A dozen vortexes of whipped air siphoned water from the sea and carried it to the darkening clouds. Lightning crackled and danced across the waves, casting an eerie glow on the tumultuous sea. Each strike suspended the roiling ocean, one moment at a time, and its majesty left Tyric speechless.

  The fury of the storm matched the unrest within the nearby volcano, creating a wild spectacle of nature's wrath and power.

  Each of Tyric’s heartbeats echoed in his ears, a reminder of his fragile humanity against the forces of destruction. As the tempest gathered, his breath caught in his throat.

  For the seventh time in his life, the horn sounded. The warning echoed across the city and rumbled beneath his feet, though the volcano’s churning voice quickly drowned it out. He peeled his anxious gaze from the ocean and once more watched the approaching monsoon that raced across the valley toward them.

  It was then that he saw it—or rather, saw her.

  A shadowy silhouette emerged from the sheets of rain, and lightning snapped above her regal head. He squinted, hardly able to comprehend the scale of what he was witnessing, and she towered over the valley. The figure stood at least fifty feet tall, a titan birthed from chaos itself.

  Destruction.

  The goddess stepped from the storm, and the sight of her stole the very breath from his lungs. Her hair, a wild inferno that cascaded over her bare shoulders, danced like captive flames against the slate-gray sky. Steam hissed and rolled off her form wherever the rain dared to touch her, creating an aura of smoldering mist. Her eyes were molten gold, narrowed with seething hatred. She wore a gown of inky black, its hem trailing and scorching the ground beneath her. Each step left a trail of ash and fire, marking her path with unquestionable power. Thorns twisted and coiled around her limbs, adorning her perfect skin like jewels.

  To all others, she was the essence of a living nightmare.

  To Tyric, however, she was beautiful.

  His legs trembled, and he gripped his staff tighter. His knuckles went white against the dark wood as she neared.

  He needed to retreat to safety. When the goddess was home, only she could walk the sacred obsidian path to her throne.

  A lone stairwell nearby led to the upper walkways, and Tyric’s aged hands gripped the rough stone rail as he struggled up a winding path. Each step sent shocks of pain through his knees, but he pressed on, driven by a sense of duty. He could hear the tumult below—the mingled screams of terror and exhilaration from his people as Destruction made her ascent. The storm’s fury clashed with their cries, creating a cacophony that reverberated through the mountainside.

  The Endwalkers had long awaited this moment. Legends spoke of Destruction’s return, of her reclaiming her throne atop the volcano and striking down Creation as their violent war resumed.

  The obsidian stairs leading to her throne glistened ominously in the fiery light emanating from the volcano. His Mistress neared in mere moments, her gait belying her formidable power. Her fiery red hair, a blazing cascade of embers, seemed to set the air aflame.

  When she reached the base of the mountain, she took the stairs one by one. The storm followed her, a loyal servant wreaking havoc as she ascended. Below, the Endwalkers watched in awed silence, their faith in the legends vindicated.

  As Tyric mercifully reached the upper walkway, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his body pleading for respite. By some miracle, he had made it just in time.

  Cheers pierced the air as she ascended to her throne, and in mere moments, she reached the platform. The ground shuddered as her bare foot touched the stone where he had stood only moments before. Lava poured from her beautiful hair, leaving a smoldering path in her wake.

  Her eyes, as molten as the lava she commanded, flickered momentarily in his direction, acknowledging his presence without truly seeing him. She was focused on her throne, as was her right.

  With a graceful flourish, Destruction sat on her throne. Her back arched like the empress she was, and her slender fingers rested gently against the stone armrests of her indestructible seat of power.

  Her molten eyes surveyed the chaos beyond her domain, and Tyric followed her commanding gaze. The storms raged, the lava flowed, the floods soaked the barren lands beyond the city, and yet her people remained untouched. Their homes stood. The rain fell gently on their homeland. Their bodies remained, protected by her divine might. The legends Tyric had studied all his life held true: Destruction's wrath was tempered by her loyalty to her servants.

  But her rage lived on.

  An eerie smile, twisted and wicked, spread across her face. Her eyes glinted with a malevolent glee as she surveyed the decimated landscape. The air around her crackled with energy, a palpable force that instilled fear in Tyric’s very soul. And yet, there was a certain beauty to be found in the destruction she had wrought, a raw display of strength and dominance that was both awe-inspiring and frightening. She reveled in it, basking in the chaos and devastation she had caused.

  Tyric fell to his knees and bowed before her in all of her majesty. His goddess—wild, untamable, and magnificent—had finally come home.

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