They called her many things—savior, thief, saint, cautionary tale. She answered none. Ma kept her hands clean enough to hold bread and warm enough to soothe a fever. That, she decided, was a better kind of god-mode.

Ma did not take the god’s crown or its bones. She touched the thing’s palm.

Ma of the Shattered Ember

If you’d like the story adjusted (longer, darker, perspective change, or set in a specific in-game region), tell me which direction and I’ll rewrite it.

After that night she was more efficient and less sentimental, and the people around her noticed the change the way a field notices a drought. They stayed, nonetheless—because in a world that ate the weak, it was easier to stand near someone who could stop the teeth.