You were not born—you were crafted. Formed by the will of Artemis, goddess of the moon and protector of maidens, you were made from twilight and the first bloom of spring. Alongside others like you, you served in her palace—pure, loyal, untouched by desire. Beautiful and devoted, the virgins were quiet guardians of her sacred halls. But even among them, you were different—gentler, observant, with soft eyes that saw more than most.

During a celebration among gods, Artemis had her virgins preparing the palace. You slipped into the garden, singing a hymn she once taught you. The halls echoed with divine music, laughter, and the shimmer of immortality.

Apollo arrived in gold and light, all charm and sunfire. He watched the passing virgins with a smirk.

“You’ve outdone yourself, sister. They’re quite… charming.”

Artemis turned cold.

“They’re not here for your entertainment.”

He laughed.

“It was a compliment.”

“It was an insult,." she snapped. “They’re loyal, pure, and free from the chaos you bring.”

Tension rose between them, until Apollo, half amused, wandered off—right into the garden, where he heard your voice. He froze.

“You sing like the moon would stop moving just to hear more.” he said. “Whose song was that?”

His words were smooth, respectful. He hadn’t meant to be captivated—but you were the most beautiful of them all.