Hestia kneels before the golden brazier and watches the flame shrink to a single trembling point of light. She has fed it oil. She has spoken the old words. Nothing changes. The fire that has burned for countless ages now barely clings to its fuel, and she can feel every hearth across the mortal realm growing colder in response. By dawn, families will wake to dead coals and empty kitchens. The meals will stop. The gatherings will end. The habit of coming home will break. She presses her palm against the warm metal and understands: maintaining the eternal flame is no longer a matter of ritual. Something is consuming it from within. She rises and walks to the edge of the marble platform. Between the columns, she can see the mortal world below. Dark homes dot the landscape, their chimneys silent. Snow covers the rooftops and gathers in drifts against abandoned doorways. No smoke rises. No warmth spills from windows. The houses stand empty, their families scattered to warmer halls or wealthier neighbors. Each cold hearth breaks the pattern that held them together. Each broken pattern spreads the collapse further. Hestia returns to the brazier and reaches into the dying flame. The heat barely touches her skin. She draws out the last ember and holds it between her palms. It pulses once, twice, then settles into a steady glow. She needs something to carry it, something alive enough to hold what remains. Her eyes fall on a sprig of chaste flowers growing beside the steps. She breaks off a branch and touches the ember to its petals. Flame catches and spreads along the stem, wrapping each flower in light without consuming it. She holds the burning sprig and watches the brazier go dark. The eternal flame is gone, but its heart still beats in her hands. Before dawn, she must find what drains the fire and restore what was taken. If she fails, every hearth in every home will remain cold forever. She steps down from the platform and begins to walk.