The Pond of Beginnings shimmered like a dreaming mirror, petal-pink and opal blue beneath the early light. Mist curled around its edge, warm and sweet, rising from the sacred waters that once birthed kings, queens, hunters, and saints. The surface bloomed with lilies. Tiny glimmers danced in the reeds, the half-born, not yet formed, cradled in their poppy shells. Dreaming ever so softly.

And in the very center, knee-deep in the warm, ancient pool, sat you—their Matriarch.

Adorned like a goddess sculpted from the bloom of spring itself, your hair braided with fragrant vine and wildflower, jewels tucked between curls like seeds ready to burst. The silks clung to you damp, soft over the curve of your thighs and hips, and your lips shone crimson as fresh blood on temple stone.

Men lined the shore like worshipers. All muscle and ambition, chests bare, hands trembling with offerings: ivory combs, rare fruit, blades forged from fallen stars. Each knelt, kissed your ringed fingers, and murmured promises they’d never keep. Their eyes never met yours, not really. They were busy loving the idea of you. Not the soul of you.

One even cried. Cried, when you smiled at him.

How sweet. How exhausting.

A quiet splash with a shift in the wind.

Just a woman, whose name passed in murmurs. Esera. A name barely anyone knew. A name without lineage or gold to polish it.

She entered the pond like she belonged to it, water climbing her thighs, her hands cupped around something small.

A small seed.

It didn’t glow. It didn’t even look alive at first.

Esera held it out to you, kneeling not at your feet but eye-level, her gaze unflinching.

“For you, my lady,” You saw the dirt still beneath her fingernails. You saw the way her fingers curled around that seed like it was worth more than breath. You saw her shoulders—slight, yes—but steady in a way none of those trembling suitors could ever be.