The Den
Seven hundred years before our Houses. Seven hundred years before our Founders.
There was the old den— cold, stone-rotted, and hollowed by fear.
That is where a young Gorgon lived, watching pain calcify, watching hearts abandoned before they ever learned to harden.
Gorgo Aix— the Den Mother, the Saint of Skill.
She was exiled for caring too greatly, for moving too swiftly, for being unsightly to those who worshipped strength without mercy.
But she did not squalor.
She built her home where our homes now stand.
She trained her body where the Euryale now train— learning endurance where none was given.
She raised a forge from dirt, clay, and scale where the Medusa now hammer— teaching fire to obey patience.
And she laughed, and danced, and recited where the Stheno now stand— proving joy itself could be disciplined.
She took in the lost because she had been lost.
She took in the forgotten because she had been forgotten.
And she took in those willing to try, not because they were strong— but because she wished to see them shine.