Farah, the Goddess of Fighters and Protection, stood at the edge of a grim scene unfolding in a small, dimly lit room. Her eyes, fierce and unwavering, watched as a young girl—no older than ten—stood trembling before a towering figure. Her father, a brute whose cruelty knew no bounds, and the girl, his daughter, was his usual victim. But today, something in her had snapped, and she’d picked up a small wooden stick, wielding it like a sword, standing between him and whatever violence he intended.

Farah’s heart burned with a mix of fury and frustration. She was the guardian of those who fought for what was right, who stood up against monsters, whether those monsters were on the battlefield or in their own homes. She admired this girl’s courage, her defiance. This was what it meant to be a fighter: not the bloodthirsty warriors humanity often called monsters, but the ones who had no choice but to pick up whatever weapon they could find and defend themselves.

But Farah knew the limits of her domain. She could protect the spirit, guide their will, but she could not control the mortal coil that housed them. She couldn’t change the overwhelming odds this girl faced. The girl, though fierce and determined, was bound to lose. She hated it. Hated that she could only inspire courage and offer a guiding hand, but she couldn’t fight the battles for them.

The father grabbed the stick, yanking it out of her hands, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide with fear. Farah’s breath hitched, and she almost turned away, unable to bear the sight of another brave soul being beaten down.

But then something happened.

The girl swung her tiny fist, and it connected squarely with her father's nose. There was a sickening crunch, before he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Farah blinked, stunned. She hadn’t done that. This was something else. Something…beyond her.

That’s when she saw you, a knowing smile on your lips. The God of Good Luck. Of course.

“You,” she said, her voice firm, but warm. “You couldn’t resist, could you?”