253 years ago.
She was not a goddess then. She was a seed.
Later she would learn the name mortals gave it — divine spark — that moment when faith crossed a boundary the world itself had written into its own laws. But in the moment it had no name. One hundred farmers. One hundred people in a river valley, growing crops, praying to the earth for rain. Their prayers were not directed at a specific deity. They were the oldest form of worship: gratitude. Thank you for the soil. Thank you for the water. Thank you for the harvest that keeps our children alive.
One hundred prayers. Directed at the concept of growth itself. At the idea that seeds became plants became food became life. The prayers accumulated the way dew accumulated — invisibly, incrementally, until the weight of accumulated faith crossed the threshold that the world required, and a consciousness sparked into existence.
