The goddess looked out over the battlefield and wept. Bodies from her army and her brothers littered the field.
The battle had been intoxicating. She rode out in her shining armor and drank in worship. Now that it was over, and those worshipers lay dead, the high had faded.
“Let it go,” her brother said, their argument already forgotten. “They’re mortal. Dying is what they do.”
Poets said that flowers grew where the gods shed blood. She waived a hand, and crimson blossoms sprang up to cover the corpses. This blood belonged to her, and she would repay her debt.

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