One by one, names echoed across the temple, slow and heavy, each one carrying the weight of expectation.
And judgment.
Some of the heirs stepped forward with trembling hands, others with chins raised and eyes blazing. A few were chosen. The ones who succeeded cried or collapsed or smiled like the gods had finally answered prayers whispered since the womb.
But none of them—none—shone like Kisaya.
The violet light of Inanna still seemed to cling to the air where she had stood, as if the goddess herself had left something behind: heat, presence, warning. The others would be remembered as footnotes. Kišaya had already become a symbol.
I waited.
Not out of fear.
Out of certainty.
The priest called another name. Then another. The roll thinned.
Then:
"Ereshgal, son of Lugalbanda. Prince of Uruk."
My steps rang clear in the silence. The floor hummed beneath me. Every eye locked on mine—some with awe, others with doubt. But I didn't look at them.
I looked up.
Waiting.
The silence felt intentional.
I took my place in the center. Lifted my chin. Readied myself to burn.
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched.
Still, I waited. I could feel it. The weight in my chest. The pulse behind my eyes. The gods were circling. I was born of stars and omen. One of them was coming. One had to be coming.
They were late. That was all.
A priest stepped forward gently, robes whispering. "Sometimes it takes a moment, my prince."
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
The moment passed.
Then another.
Whispers.
Then murmurs.
Then disbelief.
The priests around the chamber shifted uneasily. A few lowered their heads. Others stared as if I might still catch fire.
But it never came.
No light. No mark. No voice. No god.
Just absence.
The head priest finally stepped forward. His face was pale, mouth drawn thin. His voice broke around the words:
"I am sorry… but it appears the gods have not chosen you."
I stood still as stone, but I felt the weight land—like a boulder across my chest, crushing breath, shattering bone I didn't know could break.
I bowed my head. Not in shame. Not in defeat.
In control.
Then I turned, walked out of the temple with each step like a blade against the floor.
Kisaya rushed to me as soon as I cleared the steps. Her arms wrapped around me.
I didn't move.
Didn't return it.
Didn't speak.
The light of her goddess still glowed faintly around her. I could feel it. I could smell it.
"We should go back to the palace" she said softly.
I nodded.
We walked in silence. The city didn't roar this time. It watched. It whispered.
Back in my chambers, I sat on the edge of the bed. Everything felt smaller.
Kisaya lingered by the door, unsure.
She stepped closer. "None of them chose you… did they?"
I looked at her. Eyes sharp. Not angry.
Clear.
"No" I said.
She hesitated. "It doesn't mean everything, you know. Being chosen isn't all that matters. You're still—"
"Get out."
She blinked, confused. "What?"
I rose from the bed, each movement slow, deliberate.
"Get. Out."
The words landed harder than I expected. Sharper than steel. Colder than the silence the gods had left behind.
Her face shifted—shock, then disbelief, then something softer. Pain. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. She looked into my eyes and saw it: I wasn't asking.
Her breath caught. Then she turned. No words. No argument.
The door closed behind her with a quiet finality that echoed louder than the silence in the temple.
And I sat alone in the dark, staring at the floor. Not thinking. Not moving.
Just breathing.
...
Deeper in the palace, in a chamber walled with old limestone and hung with thick red drapes to keep out both cold and sound, two voices whispered beneath the weight of silence.
Queen Ninsun stood near the window, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Her long black hair was streaked with silver and pulled back in ceremonial braids. The moonlight caught the edges of her features—delicate but severe, the kind of beauty shaped more by sorrow than softness. Her eyes, usually calm, now shimmered with uncertainty.
"He wasn't chosen" she said, voice barely holding together. "Why? There was no better candidate. He's strong. Brave. Brilliant. Maybe… a little proud. But that's not enough to be ignored."
King Lugalbanda stood across from her, beside a broad stone table cluttered with old clay tablets, their surfaces etched with symbols of law, lineage, and prophecy. The table had seen more bloodline disputes than celebrations, and he knew each crack by memory. He kept one hand resting on its edge, as if grounding himself against what he could not control. He was taller than most, his frame lean but built from battle, not ceremony. His armor was still strapped to his chest, polished but worn. His face was hard stone—all lines, calculation, and command. Only his eyes moved.
"It doesn't matter" he said flatly.
Ninsun turned sharply. "How can you say that? The gods—"
"The prophecy still stands" he interrupted. "Chosen or not, he will be king."
She stared at him, searching. "Even without divine blessing?"
He nodded once. "Especially without it."
She didn't respond.
Lugalbanda stepped forward, gaze unflinching. "If he's going to lead Uruk into a new age, he needs to see the world for what it truly is. Not what the priests dress it up to be. He must fight for it. Bleed for it. Earn it."
The room fell silent again, save for the soft crackle of the oil lamp burning low.
***
AN: Hi. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, this is my first serious attempt at writing a novel. I'd really appreciate any reviews or feedback you can offer, as they help me grow. And if you enjoy the book, please consider adding it to your library. Thank you for reading!