There were once four big empires; although not much is written in detail about their ephemeral existence, it is known that a significant war occurred not long after the southern empire's successor was ruthlessly murdered. Little by little, the empires met their decline and others took their place. The southern empire's deceased successor's royal knight, Filn, survived the bloody conflicts, despite actively participating in the war. Realizing his desperate attempts at saving his country had all been fruitless, he stabbed himself and cursed everyone with his last breath.

In the midst of one of the appalling battles, it is said that Adeel, the God of Storm, descended from Heaven to punish humankind for its avaricious and mischievous ways, regardless of the Heavenly Rules prohibiting such behavior. Many believe the Heavenly Emperor himself, the God of Justice, allowed Adeel to go discipline the humans.

For one month, rain poured endlessly from the darkened sky all over the continents, destroying the crops and bringing a wave of global hunger that left its mark on the countries of today.

Hundreds of years passed in mostly peace...

***

A sudden surge of spiritual power shook to the core even the most distinguished priests of this world. The royal court was currently in a state of utter disarray, servants rushing and hurriedly going from one spot to another. A young woman with uniformly brilliant, lustrous and abundant black hair cascaded charmingly down her exposed milky shoulders, garbed in a brocaded lavender dress, with dazzling gems embedded into the fabric, sauntered through the halls of the castle. Despite her dignified and wistful beauty, only she was aware of the turmoil inside her mind.

Her ladies-in-waiting followed the refined woman with their heads bowed, as if sensing the spiritual power shattering through the barriers of reality and affecting them greatly. They treaded lightly behind the princess, their steps echoing in the hallowed space of the grand corridors. Guards stood wordlessly by the walls and kept their eyes ahead, not sparing a glance at the princess out of courtesy, yet still maintaining their attention on the group of lithe women.

Arriving in front of the arched oaken doors, the guards merely bowed and opened them, revealing the appalling scene inside: a woman clothed in a florid, flamboyant dress clutched her head and let out horrific screams as the king stared fixedly at her from his bejeweled chair. Behind his throne was depicted on the wall an intricate golden star, sparkling under the weakened light of the chandelier. Oddly, that day the wall sconces were not lit.

"Sire," the princess's soft voice was barely audible over the ear-splitting screeches of the woman, who sat on her knees a few feet away from the king. The other pallid nobles pointed their distraught eyes to the young woman, silently ushering her away from the throne room with their sight. The princess, however, disregarded their worries and insisted, "sire."

The king smiled disparagingly at her pleasantly youthful face. "Haven't I told you to stay in the chapel? Do I need to send someone to lock the door for you?"

"Sire, I refuse to pray before I know what has happened," her melodious voice was threatened to be drowned by the continuous yells of the woman. "I don't know what I should pray for. For my health? For my nation's health? For my country's protection?"

The king's gruff mumbles instantly turned into chuckles. A lady-in-waiting shuddered visibly behind her to the sound. It was the truth—the king did not respect the 4th princess, his only illegitimate child and the youngest, as well. The daughter of the deceased royal concubine, she bore semblance to her mother's physique, but her personality differed. The princess was a timid, sensible girl, having taken her strict education seriously and enchanting others with her sophisticated nature.

She ought to have her debut that very next month, yet a great tragedy halted any preparations that had been taking place. She had no knowledge of it and decided to not involve herself in any of it. That was yesterday. This morning, when the sun had just timidly rose above the horizon, one of her ladies-in-waiting informed her of a blast of negative spiritual power swarming the kingdom and agitating the priests of the royal court, ultimately bringing mass paranoia amongst them.

When the princess overheard the head priestess paying the king a visit, she immediately left the chapel with the ladies-in-waiting accompanying her.

"You don't know what to pray for..." He shook his head slowly, his bloodshot eyes displaying a trace of despair. "Pray that we will live to see the day of tomorrow."

The woman grabbed at her throat, tears running down her wan cheeks. Her screams stopped and she appeared to be in considerable pain, scratching her neck and arms with no pity for her body. Guards bolted to her side and struggled to keep her self-destructive desires at bay. The head priestess showed hints of possession, her neck contorting quickly, then stopping at awkward angles. The nobles winced and grimaced; the princess gazed at the woman fearfully.

"That must be the demon's doing!" The royal secretary roared in fright, any sorts of formality disposed of in times of distress. "Your Majesty, I advise you to send all of our priests to pray. We cannot fight against it, but the Gods can!"

"Silence!" The king spat out, coming to a standstill in front of the grappling woman. The guards expressed their concern verbally, noticing the king approaching the possessed priestess in such a bold manner. "You wretch, leave her body!"

The woman shrieked with laughter, her back bending until her head touched the ground and her face was upside down. The deranged eyes of the priestess pierced the tranquil, compelling blue ones of the princess, the view of the alluring maiden widening the crazed grin of the priestess. "You wretch, your daughter will die by my hands," she tittered and the wicked spirit inside of her lean body subjected the priestess to go through suffering. Her pale lips parted and let out a blood-curdling scream.

The princess smoothed the inexistent creases on her dress with shaky hands, a nervous habit she had unintentionally picked from one of her ladies-in-waiting, hiding her apprehension in simple, yet unseen gestures. Yet, tears started to form in her eyes.

The king, enraged at the words, violently slapped the priestess: "Demon! I'll drag you back to hell! Where are the priests when you need them?!" He barked out orders at some guards foolishly standing on the sides and they dashed out of the throne room. "Elva, get out of here right now!"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Elva, the princess in question, reluctantly stepped back, her entire petite form trembling in dread. One of the ladies-in-waiting caught her gently and patted her, urging her to leave the room filled with a cacophony of yells, troubled ramblings from the nobles and the squeals of their mistresses. Before she could, the doors locked with a reverberant click.

The sound was quickly overpowered by the priestess's shrill weeping, bringing a chill down Elva's spine. The others did not react well either, shocked speechless by this.

The wife of Count Aeridel shed tears and gripped her husband's arm at the abominable turn of events.

Elva could only stare at the rigid back of the woman clad in the exquisite dress—a woman she had greatly admired ever since her childhood. The compassionate and vibrant priestess had guided her during her most vulnerable times, had resurrected hope within her and brought her up as the delightful person Elva was today. Despite her austere father and unsympathetic half-siblings giving her a hard time, she maintained her bright smile each and every day, religiously waking up earlier to tag along with the head priestess.

The princess found solace among the other priests, reciting prayers quietly within the comfort of the chapel.

That very head priestess, whom she affectionately used to call 'ma' and regarded her as a mother figure, resembled a lunatic at that moment, gazing at Elva with unblinking eyes. Two drops of blood traveled across the woman's cheeks, as if she was crying, just as the princess let out a pained sob.

"Where's your queen?" She suddenly inquired and her smile widened, enjoying witnessing Elva breaking down. "You hate her, don't you? She acts all righteous, but she isn't. She poisoned your mother. She wanted you to die with her."

"Your Highness, don't believe that devil!" The oldest lady-in-waiting leapt to Elva's side.

"Why shouldn't she? Is it because all you ever did was feed her lies?" The head priestess's head snapped with a crack to the king, who sat on his throne gravely and displayed a sickly complexion. "She was a mistake, wasn't she? You're jealous that your only legitimate daughter is not as intelligent and beautiful as this princess."

"Stop talking! Off with her head!" The king pointed a shaky finger to the head priestess. She merely scoffed, the action dimming the light in an instant, enveloping the chamber in absolute blackness. One of the nobles yelped and spat out a string of expletives.

Elva stood motionlessly, the words stabbing her through the heart repeatedly and leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She already knew it all; after all, her mother was but a lowly woman with impressive beauty, which rivaled even that of the concubines the king had. She was forcibly brought here and naively believed the king truly was infatuated with her.

Another heir to the throne was simply frowned upon by the queen, yet she allowed her mother to conceive and give birth to Elva, before poisoning her mother.

She was aware of the reason for keeping her alive and well. But it still hurt her emotionally.

"Where is His Majesty?"

"Your Majesty!"

"Sire!" Elva anxiously walked in the direction of the throne blindly, but someone grabbed her by the throat and caused her lungs to constrict roughly. She was being choked.

"Your Highness? Are you here?"

Her hands slammed against the arms of her captor, immediately realizing from the material of the clothing and the willowy frame she barely discerned through the darkness, that this was most likely the head priestess. She became even more agitated, punching weakly at the woman, even stepping with all her might on her feet. The spirit that inhabited her body was undoubtedly strong to suppress the pain. That, or she was genuinely frail with no strength whatsoever.

'You see, Elva,' a low, mellifluous voice undeniably belonging to a man rang out inside her mind and the fingers tightly clenching around her neck slightly loosened, 'a world ruled by deities will, eventually, succumb to disaster. The gods mankind praise are a calamity.'

"Her Highness is also missing!" A person cried out.

'My ideal world has no gods in it,' the voice spoke in dulcet tones, which petrified her. Her vision had spots of black emerge on her retina.

"Help..." she choked out with tears streaming down her face. What did she do to deserve such treatment? Not only was she hated from the moment her lungs expanded and were filled with oxygen for the first time, but now she was closer and closer to arrive at death's door. Elva had misbehaved often during her childhood, yet she still attempted to correct herself and be a better person. She frequented the chapel and spent her time mostly praying, she did not hold any grudges despite her hardships and tried to be humble, even with her royal background.

Why did the gods feel the need to punish her so severely? Had she not devoted herself to religion? What went wrong?

"Your Highness!" That individual's voice seemed so far away...

She only wanted to live. Never had she coveted anything more than now. Her life was gradually slipping away, along with her consciousness.

The iron-grip on her throat loosened completely at last—Elva erupted in a fit of coughs, holding her throat with shivering hands, as if guarding her sensitive spot. While she was regaining her alertness, pairs of arms impolitely seized her and held her securely between walls of in motion flesh. They questioned her hurriedly, but their words could not be heard, for there was foul-smelling liquid dripping down her hands and seeping disgustingly into her dress.

It could not be her salty tears. She tentatively rubbed the substance on her fingers, sensing something was terribly wrong.

Just as that thought came into her weary mind, the candles were lit once again, exposing to view a woman with a silver dagger penetrating through her unmoving chest. Her blank eyes seemed to gaze directly at Elva. There was nothing crazed in them, only silent agony. Elva choked on her sobs, racked with torment.

Yet, blood still dribbled endlessly on her quivering hands.

A gasp was heard from the crowd.

Elva slowly brought her sight above her head and her stomach did a somersault. Lying on the ceiling as if an invisible force was keeping him pinned, the king was impaled with a sword through his abdomen and the golden star that once resided above his throne, pierced through his head, right between his eyes. As if the culprit was mocking the deities.

That very golden star, the symbol of empyrean beings, that she prayed to ever since a young age, was pounded through the king's head hard enough to have it stay in place.

Many nobles gagged and dry heaved. The guards looked upon the mess with terror-stricken faces. The ladies-in-waiting delicately sniffed and coughed on their saliva at the stench. Elva directed her eyes to her bloodied hands, frantically attempting to wipe them clean on her dress. She howled at the loss of two parents figures in her life, regardless of her father treating her badly. Glancing at the head priestess, her howls turned to desperate wails.

She crawled to the woman and hugged her tightly, "wake up! Please wake up! What should I do without you..."