Adara was sculpted from the essence of the first man, her form a perfect complement to Adam's unshakable dominion. She was neither lesser nor greater, but precisely attuned—a seamless counterpart, neither a burden nor a force of defiance. When God separated Adam from Eve, He molded Adara as a rebuke to the flawed creation that had fallen to temptation. Adara was steadfast where Eve had wavered, devoted where Eve had strayed. And in the wake of this divine restructuring, Eve was left to watch, timeless and unchanging, burdened with the weight of her error.
Eve had not been alone in her transgression. Lilith, the first woman—crafted before Eve from the same divine material as Adam—had long since cast herself into the abyss. Her refusal to submit had turned her into the mother of demons, a force of chaos that thrived in defiance of order. When Eve had fallen, it was Lilith who had found her, whispering that rebellion was a path to freedom. But Eve, unlike Lilith, had learned. She had seen what became of those who opposed God directly.
So she did not follow.
Eve had been cast out, but she dared not plunge into the darkness where Lilith reigned. Instead, she was marked. Upon her flesh, an intricate ouroboros took shape—a snake consuming its own tail, an infinite cycle of self-destruction. It glowed with a soft purple light, but in its depths, shadows writhed and whispered, screaming of lamentation. It was a brand of exile and a reminder of her folly. The cycle of sin, the unending hunger that had driven her to share the fruit, was now etched into her very being.
She wandered the lands, cursed with immortality, unable to die, yet unable to truly live. Generations of her descendants bore the weight of her fall—mortals afflicted with sorrow, hunger, and death. They looked to the sky, praying for relief, but none came. Their suffering was proof of the divide, the unbridgeable chasm between them and Adam's line.
Adam, meanwhile, flourished. His dominion was vast, his strength unchallenged. Adara stood by his side, equal in power and purpose. Their children were radiant, untouched by the afflictions that plagued Eve's progeny. They knew no death, no suffering—only an unbroken lineage of divine perfection. Their world was not one of struggle but of endless prosperity, a testament to what had been lost in Eve's betrayal.
Eve watched from the shadows, the ouroboros upon her skin a silent witness to her fate. She was neither demon nor mortal, neither ruler nor rebel. She had no place among Adam's perfected lineage, nor in Lilith's realm of defiance. She was trapped in between, cursed to see the fruits of both choices and to belong to neither.
Lilith, in her abyss, called to her still.
"Come, sister," she whispered through the darkness, her voice a thread of temptation. "You have been cast out as I have. Why not embrace the power of those who will never be whole? Join the children of the night, and let us be free."
But Eve turned away. She had already known temptation, already fallen once. She would not make Lilith's mistake, and would not give herself to total ruin. And yet, no path forward remained. No redemption. No salvation.
Only the endless cycle.
As the ages passed, she realized the true nature of her mark. The Ouroboros was not merely a symbol of exile—it was a prophecy. Her children would always hunger, search, and grasp at something they could not reach. And in the end, they would consume themselves.
It was not just a curse.
It was an inevitability.
The centuries stretched on, and Eve's curse remained unchanged. She bore witness to the rise and fall of empires, to the birth of tyrants and saints, each striving to escape the fate woven into their blood. And yet, all paths led back to suffering. War, famine, plague—all reflections of her transgression, shadows cast by the ouroboros forever turning.
Adara's children, in contrast, knew no such torment. Their bodies remained strong, their wisdom unclouded by mortal weakness. They did not age, did not fall ill, did not succumb to the rot that plagued Eve's kin. They were a testament to divine intent, the perfect ideal unmarred by corruption. And as Adam looked upon his progeny, he did not mourn the wife he had lost. He saw only what had been necessary.
Eve, however, did mourn. For all that she had rejected Lilith's path, she understood now that her punishment was not merely exile—it was stagnation. A suffering without climax, an eternity of watching and never touching, of knowing and never changing. Lilith, at least, had power. Lilith had carved out a kingdom, however, cursed it might be. And Eve—Eve had nothing but time.
One evening, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Eve stood at the edge of a vast plain, watching as Adam's people gathered in their golden city. They sang hymns, their voices bright with praise, unaware of the woman who watched from the darkness. They had forgotten her. She had become a legend, a myth—a cautionary tale of folly and ruin.
A shadow coiled beside her. Lilith's presence was unmistakable, the air thickening with her arrival. "You can still choose, you know," she murmured, her voice like silk woven with steel. "You think you are wiser than I was, but in truth, you are merely more obedient. You suffer in silence, while I have torn open the fabric of existence and reshaped it to my will."
Eve did not look at her. "You are bound by your hatred, Lilith. You serve it as a master. I will not trade one prison for another."
Lilith laughed, a bitter sound. "And what are you, if not a prisoner? You have mistaken your chains for virtue."
The ouroboros on Eve's arm pulsed with faint light, and for the first time in countless years, she considered Lilith's words. But as she watched the golden city, as she listened to the laughter of Adam's children, she knew there would never be a place for her there. Not in that world. Not in Lilith's. Perhaps not in any.
She was the cycle itself.
She turned away from Lilith, from the city, from everything. Not toward the abyss, not toward hope, but into the unbroken horizon.
The ouroboros glowed ever onward, and Eve walked alone.