The wooden cabin stood nestled among beech and oak trees, its presence barely betrayed by the thin plume of smoke rising from the short chimney. Cyrus approached the door and knocked gently.
A young woman, her brown hair falling over a simple white dress, opened the door. Her eyes held no fear, but a guarded wariness lingered. She quickly assessed Cyrus: a stranger, dirty and disheveled, yet not seemingly dangerous.
"Pardon me, young lady. I lost my way in the rain, but I saw the smoke among the trees and found your cabin. May I stay in the small shed behind your house for a while? I'm willing to work in return."
She considered his words before pointing to the tree stump and axe near the shed. "If you chop wood for me, I'll agree."
Cyrus bowed slightly, took the axe, and began chopping wood.
Afterwards, he bathed and changed into clean clothes. The girl, who introduced herself as **Lucian**, had prepared dinner. She was 27 and seemed to have lived in the mountains her whole life, knowledgeable about medicinal plants and fond of the night's quiet.
The meal was hot soup and bread, with cool water in a jug. Several candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the room. Before eating, Lucian prayed, which piqued Cyrus's interest.
"Are you a believer?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, putting down her spoon.
"I don't mean to offend, but these days, I don't see many people praying."
Lucian's expression shifted, her thoughts evident. "What do you mean?"
Cyrus spoke calmly, "I've seen many believers, divided into two groups: those who stand firm in their faith, and those who abandon it when challenged."
Lucian, aware of the persecution under the new king, nodded. "Isn't belief supposed to help humanity progress?" she mused, after a pause.
"Naturally."
"But if you discovered that your beliefs were holding you back, would you still cling to them?"
Cyrus was taken aback, suspecting she might be a runaway nun. "What if that challenge is the divine test?"
Lucian laughed softly. "And what if the test is to let go?"
Cyrus smiled at her insight, saying, "Perhaps you're right."
She offered no further response, returning to her meal. Cyrus, too, fell into silence, pondering the notion of divine tests. He knew that what people called a "test" was often the result of cause and effect. The persecution of believers was not a divine trial but the outcome of a flawed relationship between the temple and the king.
---
Cyrus thought back to the ancient understanding of gods: creations of mortals to explain the unknowable. In his time, many gods existed, each crafted to serve a purpose: gods of war, love, and even the underworld. But mortals did not know that gods, too, were created by something greater, something beyond comprehension.
Cyrus, the Lord of Memories, had seen the veil of creation and glimpsed the power beyond it. It was a force so absolute that even gods feared it. He knew it existed, yet it remained elusive, never revealing itself.
"The light of the world belongs to the one who holds the fire of creation," Lucian had recited earlier in a mournful tune. That truth lingered in Cyrus's mind as he reflected on the divine power behind the veil—a force that encompassed everything, absolute and incomprehensible.
---
That night, as the moon bathed the land in silver light and the trees whispered in the wind, Cyrus decided to end his stay. He waited until the third hoot of the night owl before slipping into Lucian's bedroom. She was fast asleep, her breathing steady.
Cyrus smiled faintly. He would absorb her memories before leaving, as he had done countless times before. Old memories became chains that bound people to the past. Better to forget, to leave behind the pain, and move forward unburdened.
He touched her forehead gently, guiding a branch of her memories towards him. A blue river of memories flowed from Lucian's heart, winding its way into his mind. Just as he began to draw them in, a voice rang out in his heart.
"The first law of the gods?"
Suddenly, with a violent force, Cyrus was thrust out of the world of memories, leaving him reeling.