Chapter 28
Shrine Maiden
Inside the temple, the air was cool, yet thick with the scent of something rich and earthy, like damp stone and moss. She had expected dark halls and flickering torches, but what she found instead was a room filled with golden light.
Crystals, embedded at intervals along the floor, cast a warm glow that danced across the walls, their surface covered in intricate script that shimmered like liquid gold. The markings on the room’s stone walls were lines of dense lettering—vaguely reminiscent of the dense academic tomes Libicocco occasionally provided her as assigned reading—but Mags couldn’t make sense of them. The symbols were elegant, flowing, as though written with the care of a practiced hand.
At the far end of the room, water streamed from the ceiling, cascading down the smooth stone like a curtain of liquid glass. It flowed silently into grooves etched into the floor, the soft trickle lost in the vastness of the space. And in the center of the room stood a massive tree, its gnarled, curving trunk reaching toward the high ceiling and the central oculus, which reflected the sky above. The leaves were the same blood-red as the trees of the Leshi, but here and there were splashes of gold, as if sunlight had woven itself into the very foliage. The base of the tree was encircled by a stone shrine, intricate carvings surrounding altar tables, one of which bore a simple stone bowl.
Narrow windows lined the walls high above them, casting beams of light that caught in the leaves of the tree, giving the entire room a surreal, otherworldly glow.
“Celestine,” Sarto said softly, her voice breaking the quiet reverie of the place. Mags turned and saw her—a woman, tall and slender, stepping gracefully from the shadows behind the large, Sanguine Tree.
At first glance, Celestine, the Shrine Maiden of Weles, appeared almost ordinary. Her face was pale, sharp with high cheekbones that gave her an ethereal, regal presence. Her heavily lidded eyes, however, were a glowing deep blue—two sapphires glinting with a light of their own. Her hair, a cascade of red-brown, flowed down her back in loose waves. She wore flowing blue robes, adorned with stitched gold stars and moons that seemed to ripple like the night sky itself. Mags stared, opened mouthed, at the alien beauty of the woman.
As if on cue, large ravens swooped in through the open windows, their wings beating the air in powerful strokes. The birds, with their glossy black feathers, circled the room before settling in the tree, perching on its branches. Mags shivered. Their eyes—each one of them—were milky white. Blind, she thought. Blind shadows, watching her and the others from their bloody perches with some foreign faculty.
Sarto bowed at the waist. Scarmiglione followed, mirroring the Captain’s gesture. But Malacoda, Libicocco, and Calcabrina fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the floor in full supplication. Mags hesitated. Unsure of what to do, she knelt and bowed her head, wanting to mimic the others, but feeling awkward and out of place.
“Lady Shadow,” Sarto said, her voice was low, but the ceremonial tone carried in the large shrine room. “Prophetess of Weles, we come to your halls as guests, seeking shelter. We humbly ask for your grace.”
Celestine’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles, her eyes fixed on Sarto, then flicking to each of the others with a piercing intensity. A raven flew down from the tree, landing on her outstretched arm with a gentle flutter. Its blind eyes, devoid of sight, stared into nothingness as it tilted its head, as if listening to something only it could hear. Celestine’s mouth parted, as though to speak, but Mags could only hear the sound of a whispering breeze.
The raven took off, ascending towards one of the windows, and then out into the open skies above. The Shrine Maiden turned her attention back to the party.
“You may stand,” Celestine said, her voice a soft, melodic whisper that seemed to echo through the hall just as Sarto’s had. “You are always welcome here, within the halls of Bijel Garden, Frey Sarto.”
Mags rose to her feet, brushing off her knees as the others did the same. The tension in the air eased, but only slightly. There was something about the Shrine Maiden—something not quite human, as though she existed on the edge of some deeper reality. She gave Mags a feeling very similar to when she was in the presence of Captain Sarto, but she couldn’t quite place it. Is it their power I’m sensing? She knew Sarto was scary powerful, and for her to pay Celestine so much respect had to hint at a great power within the Shrine Maiden.
As Celestine spoke, young women, all about Mags’ age, began to enter the room—barefoot, clothed in white robes, with cloth blindfolds covering their eyes. They moved with effortless grace, navigating the space with an uncanny precision given the blindfolds. Two of them approached the stone bowl on the altar, pouring what appeared to be wine from pitchers into it, their movements fluid and unhurried.
One of the women entered the room, her presence drawing a slight, barely perceptible reaction from Calcabrina. Mags caught the subtle tension in her posture, the way her shoulders tightened just for a moment before she forced herself to relax. But her eyes followed the young woman, and for a brief second, Mags thought she saw something more in Calcabrina’s expression—a flicker of recognition, or perhaps something deeper. She did say she spent some time here before joining the Ghost Hounds.
Celestine’s gaze shifted again, her eyes settling on each of them in turn, as if weighing them, measuring something unseen.
“The priestesses will show you to your quarters,” she said, her voice gentle but commanding. “Bijel Garden is yours to explore, and all that it offers is open to you. But remember, you walk on hallowed ground.”
Mags nodded, unsure if she was meant to respond. The air in the temple was thick with expectation, and she felt an odd sense of being watched, not by the priestesses or even Celestine, but by something older, something engrained into the very stones of the place.
As they were led away, Mags cast one last glance at Celestine, who stood silently by the tree, the second raven now perched on her arm. Its sightless eyes seemed to follow them, though Mags knew it couldn’t see.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
The blindfolded priestesses moved in silence, their footsteps soundless on the polished stone floors as they led Mags and the others out of the temple and into the open air. Mags tried not to stare, but the way they glided across the ground, never once stumbling or slowing, unnerved her. She wondered if they were truly blindfolded. The air outside was cool and carried with it the familiar scent of forest.
They led the group through Bijel Garden’s inner grounds and up a narrow path to the towers that lay behind the temple. Mags had glimpsed them from the temple—tall, four-sided structures with flat roofs, their many balconies wrapped in creeping red ivy. From here, she could see the tops of the Sanguine Trees swaying gently in the breeze, their blood-red leaves brushing against the tower walls like the fingers of some vast, ancient hand.
The room they took her to was small, especially compared to the room she had been given aboard Skithbladnir. Two beds, pushed up against opposite walls, awaited her and Calcabrina. Mags noticed their belongings—carefully arranged beside each bed, despite neither Sarto nor Celestine mentioning anything about moving their things from where they had left them down by the steps that led to Bijel Garden. She frowned, wondering just how that had been done so quickly. The thought of the blindfolded women silently moving down and up the mountainside, unpacking their bags and chests with unseen hands—it was a ridiculous image.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“You think they used magic?” Mags asked as she dropped her satchel bag onto her bed.
Calcabrina glanced over, a half-smirk on her face. “I wouldn’t know.” She pulled open her own satchel, checking through her gear as if it were a perfectly normal day. “You’ll get used to it. The priestesses and everything.”
Mags wasn’t so sure. There was something unnerving about the place. Still, she supposed she would have to get used to it—at least for now. “Did you know any of them? The blindfolded girls?”
Calcabrina’s half-smirk faded. She cleared her throat. “I do . . . I did. Some of the priestesses were only initiates, hoping to take oaths in the service of the temple—back when I was here, I mean.”
Mags could sense that it was a somewhat uncomfortable subject, so she pivoted. “Do you know whether they can actually see through those blindfolds? Do they actually walk around this place blind?”
Calcabrina didn’t lighten. She turned away from Mags, making for the room’s exit. “They cannot see.”
Later that afternoon, one of the priestesses, again blindfolded, led her on a brief tour of the central grounds. Calcabrina tagged along, adding her own commentary to the stoic explanations the priestess offered in gestures and occasional murmured words.
“That’s the fountain where they bless the water,” Calcabrina pointed out as they passed a round basin of clear, rippling liquid. “You don’t drink from it, though. Something about it being for the gods. Not us.”
They passed beneath an archway made of twisting stone, the symbols etched into its surface emphasized by the afternoon sunlight. A path extended beyond the archway, into the Sanguine Trees that covered the mountaintop. “Those mark the boundary of the sacred grounds,” Calcabrina explained. “Don’t cross them unless you’re invited. We’re guests, after all. Even the priestesses aren’t permitted there.”
Mags nodded, absorbing the information as best she could. The place felt both welcoming and strange, as though she were walking through a dream, every edge slightly blurred, every sound muted.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Malacoda was unrelenting in his training, pushing Mags to the edge of her endurance as they worked through drills. He corrected her with the patience of a veteran, his words measured but firm. She found herself catching on more quickly than she had before, particularly with the sword and in hand-to-hand combat.
Once their session ended, Mags retreated to her room, where she buried herself in the most recent scrolls and texts Libicocco had given her. They were dense, filled with information on various countries, noble families, battles of the past, and even foreign languages. She forced herself to focus, determined to master every nuanced subject Libicocco threw her way.
By the time the sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the sea, Mags felt a heavy exhaustion settling into her bones. She glanced over at Calcabrina, who had already fallen asleep in the bed across from hers, and sighed, wondering what other secrets lay waiting for her in the coming days.
With that thought, she withdrew the Daedalus Orb and began to practice running through the miniature aura maze, letting her mind wander elsewhere as she did. The only sound in the room was the soft rustle of the wind through the Sanguine Trees that drifted through the window mixing with the gentle breathing of the sleeping Calcabrina.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
Try as she might, Mags could not fall asleep. She couldn’t shake the strangeness of the day—Celestine and her blind ravens, the blindfolded priestesses, the enigmatic tree at the heart of the temple.
Sighing, she slipped out of bed and tip-toed out of the room.
She wandered through the quiet tower. The stone halls were bathed in pale moonlight, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and shift as she passed by the windows that lined the outer wall of the hall. Her feet eventually led her to one of the balconies, a wide stone ledge overlooking Bijel Garden’s central grounds, the clearing encapsulating both the towers and the domed temple. She leaned on the railing, taking in the sight of the night sky—a deep, star-flecked canvas, the stars scattered like diamonds against velvet. There was no sign of starlight swimmers this night. Below, the treetops of the Leshi Forest swayed in the wind.
There, peeking out from behind the canopy of Sanguine Trees, was the Hand of Weles. The giant stone fingers jutted into the sky, a looming silhouette in the distance. The sight of it filled Mags with a strange sense of awe. The awe was quickly replaced with an ache in her chest. She thought of Vitomir, Sabo, and all of the others from Solstice. She missed them dearly and a mixture of sorrow and guilt boiled up into her throat when she realized she hadn’t thought of them in over a day.
I’ll learn how to control this power, and then I’ll fight to protect others. I promise one day no one else will die like you did. Tears stung her eyes. I won’t fail them like the Empire failed us. The tears were dashed by a sudden rage at the memory of the Coalition Forces landing on the outskirts of Solstice—marching under a banner of hope, only to methodically snuff out any remaining semblances of life in the small town.
After a while of sitting there alone, lost in her own thoughts, Mags decided she’d wander back to the room and try to sleep again. She was about to turn back when something caught her eye.
Movement—just at the edge of the central grounds, where the stone paths gave way to the dark expanse of the forest. At first, she thought it was a trick of the shadows, the wind stirring the leaves in some peculiar way. But no—the shape was real. Wolf-like, inky black, barely perceptible against the night. Mags narrowed her eyes, trying to make out more details. It looked almost like an ordinary wolf, but not one she had ever seen before. Its fur seemed to shimmer with starlight, its pitch black surface mirroring the night sky above.
Her heart skipped a beat.
A Maldrath? . . . Here? . . . On the island?
She leaned over the balcony, straining to get a better view. The creature padded silently along the edge of the grounds, its form almost melding with the shadows of the Sanguine Trees. Mags felt a chill crawl up her spine as she swear it glanced up at her with silvery eyes.
She thought back to Perun. It looked so similar to what she thought she had spotted creeping into the alleyway when she had gotten separated from Calcabrina. Had she been imagining things then? Was she imagining this now?
Maybe I’m crazy? she thought. Perhaps the stress of what happened in Solstice, and of everything that had followed, was too much for her.
“You’re not losing your mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The voice behind her made her jump. She stumbled forward, nearly toppling over the balcony, her heart leaping into her throat. She caught herself on the railing, breathing hard, before whirling around.
Celestine stood there, draped in her intricate blue robes, her glowing sapphire eyes fixed on Mags. The Shrine Maiden’s expression was serene, her smile soft, though it didn’t quite reached her eyes.
“It likely means you no harm,” Celestine continued, her voice soft, almost soothing.
Mags swallowed hard, turning back to look at the creature. It had slipped further into the shadows of the forest, barely visible now. “Is it—a Maldrath?”
Celestine’s smile widened, but it was a cold, distant thing, more akin to the moonlight reflecting off ice than warmth. “No, child. That is no spawn of the miasma.”
Mags frowned, her gaze darting between Celestine and the now-vanished creature. “But it looked like the one I saw—think I saw—when we were in Perun.”
“What you saw,” Celestine interrupted, her voice dropping to a lower, more serious tone, “was the Archon of Darkness.”
Mags furrowed her brow. “Archon?” she repeated, her voice small.
“Yes.” Celestine stepped closer, her gaze drifting toward the treetops where the creature had disappeared. “Yggdrasil. Its Roots stretch deep into the Aethereal Sea, touching every corner of the world, both physical and metaphysical, each representing one of the foundational elements. The Archons are Yggdrasil’s emanations—manifestations of the Roots. Each Archon is a sliver of the divine. And that—” she gestured toward the forest, “—was one of them. The Archon of Darkness.”
Divine? Mags shook her head, struggling to wrap her mind around what Celestine was saying. “What’s all this talk of the ‘divine’? Aren’t you a Shrine Maiden of the Zircunwit faith? You worship Weles, don’t you?”
Celestine’s eyes gleamed with something sharp, dangerous. “Religion is a human artifice. What is divine is often beyond our understanding, beyond the petty labels and dogma we try to impose on it. In the Zircunwit, it is said that Weles sacrificed himself to himself—hanging himself from the branches of a great tree to gain knowledge of ancient power.” Her gaze flicked back to the forest. “Some believe that tree was Yggdrasil.”
Mags frowned. Yggdrasil to her had been little more than the interface she was now capable of interacting with. Based on her lessons with Rubicante, she knew that it was also a metaphysical construct that existed outside of the physical realm, and was part of how Soulsingers and other practitioners of magic interacted with the Aethereal Sea.
Celestine nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Yes, and hanging there upon the tree, Weles gained the knowledge he sought. Dark and dangerous knowledge. Knowledge that some say drove his brother to try to kill him.”
Mags shuddered. “And the Archon? What does this have to do with the Archon?”
“You say you believe you saw it in Perun?”
“Yes.”
Celestine regarded her with a strange intensity. “The Archons are drawn to power. If you have seen the Archon of Darkness more than once, then perhaps it has taken notice of you.” Her eyes seemed to glint with a knowing light. “Perhaps you are touched by Fate, child. Destined for some purpose.”
Mags didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. She turned back toward the forest, where the creature had vanished, a cold sense of foreboding creeping over her, prickling her skin with gooseflesh.
“Fate-touched.” The words seemed to flutter from the Shrine Maiden’s lips, but mixed with the evening wind. Mags wasn’t sure Celestine had spoken at all.
She shivered again. No, she didn’t want the eyes of the divine taking notice of her.