It took Malina a moment to remember how to walk.

Her hands had never stopped trembling, not really, but now they were shaking hard even through her tight fists. The tension made her arm spasm, and the Witch spent a good second fighting the sudden tremors.

Failure. Was it? A half-failure, according to Stella. The Nameless Ones had seen her answer as acceptable, and the Witch could taste the lingering caress of the Pantheon at the back of her throat. But the Flesh Matron, last of her kind, had claimed it insufficient.

Malina’s lips parted in a protest that never came. Suddenly, they closed again, her jaw locked shut as the Witch thought twice before her pride spoke louder than her rationality. Stubborn or stupid, not both.

Could she… tell where it went wrong? Stella was still waiting, the door open into the bowels of the temple, expecting her to get up and walk the final path in silence. The Flesh Matron expected compliance, and Malina couldn’t fight her on these grounds.

Failure. Why? The Witch shook her head, trying to dig into her own thoughts. Then stopped, reluctantly. She couldn’t do this now. Her mind was rambling, her conversation with Stella coming to haunt her every time she tried to focus. No, better to do this later.

So Malina did. With a mighty gulp, the Witch swallowed her pride, and kept her head low as she walked past Stella and the door’s threshold. It was difficult, but Malina could learn how to clamp down her feelings. Somehow.

What was ahead of her made it easier as well. Stella closed the door behind them and with the thud of stone striking stone, the lights of the corridor were lit. A dozen glowing wisps, pulsing lazily as they clad the interior of the temple in warm yellow light, their forms bound by thickened stems of fleshy tendrils that gripped onto their shapes, like fruits hanging from a branch.

Malina focused ahead, and couldn’t help the unnerving feeling that crawled up her spine as she stared at the corridor. Only a few times had she been allowed to traverse this deep, and the structure had always been different somehow, changing according to the whims of… someone. She was unsure if that would be Stella or the Nameless Ones themselves.

Probably the Gods Below. The shaping of stone was not within the domains of Stella’s Class, and her Core was that of a Cleric instead of a Witch. It would take ludicrous amounts of faith to keep a strong enough miracle that would cause these effects – and their congregation was so small Malina rapidly understood that this could only be done by those she worshipped.

The realization failed to bring any relief. This time, the corridor was slowly curling left, archways of stone decorating every half-dozen meters and marking the long hallways like the ridges of an intestine.

The rattling she felt only continued to grow as the Witch realized she could see all of it. The corridor was turning left, and her sight followed the inclination in a way that made her dizzy, following how it curved again and again, deeper within itself like a spiral. Malina had to close her eyes suddenly as the knowledge caused a pang of headache, like knives digging into her scalp, and she groaned at the sudden warmth that trickled down her cheeks.

She tried to focus on something else, heeding the old advice of her sisters for whenever she met these pieces of broken reality, and the sound of bare feet touching stone was enough to ground her for a moment, followed by Stella’s voice.

“It’s just a trick of perception, Malina. Your eyes lie to you. Follow me.”

Malina tried. She opened her eyes a crack, and she could see the end of the corridor a palm away from her and dozens of meters below her feet. The young Witch struggled to make sense of this, but Stella had called it a type of illusion.

That helped. A Witch should be able to bend her view of the world to accrue new Meanings, and this was no different. Slowly, Malina began to prime herself for the task, taking a deep breath and imagining what a corridor should look like, contained by its own limitations.

“Eyes can’t bend. Eyes can’t bend. Eyes can’t bend.”

Malina chanted it like a mantra, thinking of things that also followed the same principles. Eyes and corridors. Steel rods and swords. She thought of Rivia’s final verdicts and The Third’s mighty executions.

Then she opened her eyes – and the corridor was a corridor once again, still turning but no longer poisoning her mind with what could be found beyond the curve. She sighed in relief, relaxing for a moment before steeling herself and following after Stella. The Flesh Matron hadn’t stopped to wait for her.

With her mind more at peace, and cleaning the warm tears that spilled from the pain, Malina could appreciate one of the details that made this part of the temple so beautiful and sacred, even if not covered in the ostentatious gold of the main room. A piece of their history, remade by Stella’s careful touch.

The mosaics had taken the Flesh Matron years to make, even with the inherited designs and the might of the Coven behind her. Malina vaguely remembered the movement of summoned demons, years back, all of them placing the colored pieces of ceramic one by one under Stella’s careful gaze.

The demons were no longer here, all of them sent back to the Hells they were called from after their services were rewarded, but the fruits of their labor remained – and they were beautiful. As she reached the first door on this long corridor, Malina took a moment to glance at the mosaic beside it, one of the stone archways separating the entrance from the piece of sacred art.

In a background of creamy porcelain, a rotting green hand stood on top, its palm facing downward. The blisters and pustules present on its skin were nauseous to see, little maggots seemingly appearing and disappearing from within the holes they had made in the flesh as they buried deeper and deeper, seeking a warm place to grow. Its nails were long and yellow, depicted with such expertise that Malina could see the cracks on them, their tips curling and bending on themselves like burgeoning spirals.

Aligned with it, another hand appeared from the opposite side and beneath it, the palm of this one facing up. This time, rotting green had been replaced by sun-cracked brown skin with smears of dusty gray.

Within the cracks and calluses, replacing the blood and pink flesh that should be beneath, Malina saw dripping sand and forgotten objects – swords and spears, chalices and books – all of them dripping between the hand’s fingers in cascades of yellowed dust.

Between the two, the representation of a dragonfly stood on the air with its open wings made of polished glass, to give the iridescent effect their wings were known for. Glass had also been mixed with weird, insectoid greens along its body – soon replaced by dusty yellow as it approached the second hand.

Malina took in the scene, and smiled. She knew the myth behind the image, having been told it when she was still a child.

The Second gives The Ninth domain over dragonflies as an apology.

The Witch stepped forward, entranced by the majesty of the piece, and raised a hand to touch the mosaic. The ceramic was cold to the touch, feeling almost wet with condensation, and made Malina relax for a second as she contemplated the piece.

Her mind, traitor that it was, reminded her that Stella would not wait for her, and she reluctantly turned her back on the artwork, leaving some of her tension with it. It was with a straighter back that Malina continued forth, trailing the Flesh Matron’s steps as they passed through the closed room that housed the altars and different mosaics.

The Witch tried to take a moment to contemplate most of them.

The Seventh forbids the birth of new demons in her domain.

The First teaches mortals how to have new ideas.

The Third smites the King of Ancient Juvia for his broken pact.

All myths and legends that Malina grew up with, telling the exploit of the Gods Below from times when their presence in the material was not so distant. She loved them – and Stella had done wonders to make the original message of each tale appear, ensuring the faithful that ever roamed these walls could remember what the foundation of their belief was.

Stories, recorded through pieces of art and long renditions spread from the oldest Priestesses to their newly-titled sisters. And now, Malina would join their ranks as a new Priestess of the Nameless Ones.

With her excitement rekindled, she ran after the Flesh Matron – and found herself traversing deep. They walked past different doors and mosaics, the symbols on them loosely referring to what the room beyond served as – be it living quarters, holy altars or other sacred places that were required at times.

Suddenly, their walk ended, and Stella turned towards Malina as she pointed to one of the doors – an eye carved onto the center of the stone, with a hooked brass handle a little to its left, affixed so they could better open it.

And for the first time Malina had no idea of what lay beyond it. Secrets, reserved to those Initiated in the faith. The Witch itched to discover them, but forced herself to focus on the Priestess.

“You will wait here until I return. I must talk with Yarrien now.”

“Oh. He showed up?”

Malina was taken by surprise for a second, but soon felt even more relieved that he had managed to arrive. Stella raised an eyebrow at her.

“He was right behind you, all this time. I’ve only elected to not let him within the chapel while we talked. I assumed privacy would be preferable due to the contents of our conversation.”

The Witch nodded.

“Thank you. Should I stay here or…”

“The door is locked. Hm – if you wish, I’ll allow you to enter the prayer rooms so that you may commune with the Pantheon. Don’t delay when I call for you, there’s still much to be done before the night ends.”

“Yes, Priestess.”

Stella turned without another word, and Malina watched her naked form limp and sway down the path they came from. The Witch waited a minute before taking a deep breath.

“Right. Where to now?”

She did think a moment of prayer would be good for her. It would be easier to set her thoughts straight if there was someone to hear them, and the Gods Below were oftentimes willing to lend an ear for a supplicant. The fact it would be done inside a holy temple of them mattered little – a figment of their attention could be called for anywhere, as long as one knew how to invite them.

Which only left the question of which one? Malina had a few ideas in mind, each one corresponding to a different facet of her plight.

For understanding, The First might be willing to listen – though the advice of The Prince of Change, when he found the supplicant worthy, was convoluted and many times inexistent. He preferred to let the wildness of choice grow untamed.

If she focused on the fear she had felt, that slow trepidation as she realized she had failed – or even, if the Witch wanted to delve deeper into that newborn dream of hers, The Fifth would be the best to pray for. The only problem was what his attention usually entailed.

Malina shivered at the idea. She was feeling too raw to possibly overcome the whispers of his nightmares. Best to leave her prayers to him for another day.

The young woman thought harder, purple eyes narrowed as she raised a hand to her chin and began to rub it.

“Which one, which one?”

She ran through a list of their epithets, the different domains that the Nameless Ones ruled over, and although most would listen, few would understand what the problem she was going through truly was. The First and The Fifth were possibilities, but Malina was unwilling to approach their maddening attention without feeling more centered herself.

“So, a more stable one.”

Well, that left only a few possibilities. The Third, The Seventh and The Second. All Goddesses, funnily enough. Still, two of them held domain over ideas that didn’t relate to her predicaments, leaving only one remaining.

The Witch smiled. She did enjoy the attention of The Second.

***

Malina didn’t run. There was a need for politeness within these walls, and the tap-tap sound of her bare feet on the stone would be a corruption of this silent sanctuary. Instead, the young woman walked, a bit faster than usual due to the time, but not without politeness.

Carefully. That was the word. Stella wasn’t here anymore to keep her safe, despite the Flesh Matron’s steely personality, and Malina felt oddly vulnerable.

Not because the Gods would ever cause her harm – she had been nothing but a stalwart faithful of them all her life. No, she worried only because of the great difference between them – and how their attention, even in small bits, could spell the doom of someone.

There were stories like that. Supplicants that called for too much of them and found themselves unable to bear the weight of their presence. Enemies that the Dark Muses threatened with the gaze of the Nameless Ones.

It wouldn’t be out of malice that they’d hurt her, Malina knew that, but there was also no malice when an elephant stepped on an ant. Accidents happened, and the young woman was unwilling to become a smear on the walls of the chapel.

So, she didn’t run. Malina, instead, tried to be quiet with every step. She kept her head low, her hands close to her chest, and only stole glances of the walls and mosaics so that she could better navigate the place.

It wasn’t hard. A corridor was a corridor regardless of how much it twisted and bent, and soon Malina found herself in front of the door she had been looking for.

Gray stone, like all the others, but flecked with a sickly green and bubbles that rose from the very stone like acne on the face of a teenager, the tip of every inflamed pore a shade lighter and threatening to burst… something. Malina looked down, away, tried not to question the sheer incomprehensibility behind whatever was going on – and instead pulled on the brass handle of the stone door, letting it swing outwards.

She tried very hard not to peer at what was inside. There was the sound of skittering, of a long proboscis sucking the nectar of a flower, of a maggot chewing on the flesh of a corpse with its circular maw. Malina ignored it to the best of her ability – trying to keep a clear mind – and stopped at the threshold, the sensation of many-legged creatures crawling underneath her skin making her shiver.

“Dekíwa, The Second! This daughter of yours seeks your great wisdom. May I offer a piece of me for a piece of you?”

The writhing sounds – stopped. Malina opened one eye, and saw a butterfly as large as her head fly from within the darkness and land on her arm, its wings a show of leafy browns and earthly ochres, with the underside colored a sky blue. Malina stayed very, very still as the creature’s long proboscis caressed her flesh with its sharp tip – then dug into it like a needle through cloth.

The music of sucking seemed to awaken the powers within once more, and Malina heard the joyous writhing and clicking mandibles of a million insects, calling for the food she had so willingly brought for them. There was a low pop as the butterfly dislodged from her arm, leaving a thin hole on her bare skin before it flew back into the shadows.

Malina rubbed the wound, wincing at the warmth as blood began to pool out of the incision. The accepted offering meant her entrance was allowed, and she saw as the same wisps that illuminated the corridor appeared in the room as soon as she stepped inside, revealing–

–Nothing. No burgeoning hives, filled with larvae and buzzing wasps. No flower beds, their leaves eaten by caterpillars and voracious butterflies deep into the inside of their blossoms. No dead creature, its flesh turned into a house of carrion eaters, skin and fat consumed to support a thousand young.

Malina took a step back at it. She couldn’t help herself. There was no trace of whatever piece of The Second had made those sounds, no sign of the giant butterfly that had taken her blood. The choir of writhing creatures was silent, leaving behind the mundane altars and idols Stella had carefully commissioned for this place.

She swallowed thickly, and shook the cobwebs from her mind, focusing on what was in front of her.

The room was divided cleanly in two, different altars resting against opposite walls. Like all of the other deities, the space of the main chapel had relegated some of the Gods facets into private chambers like this one, where more unknown epithets could be properly tended for without crowding the main room. As The Second’s titles didn’t have opposing characteristics, they were even allowed to coexist within a single room.

On the right half, glued to the wall, a large wooden table dripped with odorless mildew, its structure firm despite the fact it should have crumpled under its own weight a long time ago. Above it, unlit candles had drizzled the wood with off-white wax, surrounding bowls of red clay where meat and fruit was left to spoil until it called for the small creatures that would savour the rot.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

All of that happened beneath the hovering figure of one of The Second’s great symbols. The Decayed Hand was as large as Malina’s torso, growing from the ceiling like a tumour as it hovered over the offerings. Its green skin was mottled and rotten, the same cracked nails she had seen on the mosaic drifting close to the altar and growing from seven long fingers – the multiple, randomly grown knuckles prominent as skin hung on waving flaps as it lost its hold onto the dead musculature.

Malina stared at it, mouth agape, and quickly fell to her knees. With her forehead glued to the ground, palms spread on the cold stone, she worshipped the divine in all of its glorious decay.

“Praise be, The Second, Goddess of Rot. May my body be a worthy home for your legions when I fall.”

A grim chant – but this facet of The Second respected nothing less. With her respects paid, she slowly pivoted to the other half of the room, stealing a glimpse of the altar.

This time, no dismembered limb grew from the ceiling – in fact, this half was even more bare than the other. The Witch saw silk and webbing, dozens upon dozens of egg sacks forever tended by doting parents that she could not see. On the walls, growing like roving eyes, structures of wax and hexagons housed the eggs of entire colonies, their walls dripping with royal jelly. The littered floor was almost covered by bundles of tiny eggs, ranging from pale white to deep pink.

On the center of it all, atop what was just a plinth of raised stone, a statue kept watch over the unborn young. A chimeric insect, so madly constructed that Malina had to admire the work of its maker, if anything just because of how much sanity he must have spent making it.

The face was that of an ant, the mandibles long and sharp, with the wings of a bee on its back and the thick plating of a beetle covering its underside. The legs of a spider kept the creature suspended, each flanked by a large proboscis that fed the mouths of a dozen larvae like a corrupted breast. At its back, a dozen clusters of eggs had been carved from tiny round stones, their shapes thinning more and more until they were precariously balanced atop the wasp-like sting at the rear end of the statue.

Words had been carved at the plinth this time, making it clear for anyone this deep into the temple of who they were praying to.

The Second. Protector of Families. Nurturer of Youth.

Malina paid her respects once more, forehead to the ground.

“Praised be, Oldest of Sisters. May your wise touch guide me through my hurdles.”

She half-expected something of an answer, but there was nothing to serve as evidence that she was heard. Malina felt the disappointment in her chest, but ignored it. It mattered not if The Second talked back, she had been accepted already.

On unsteady feet, the Witch walked towards the altar and kneeled, her fingers clasped in prayer. This facet of The Second was one of the kindest, though known for its austerity as well, and it listened to prayers about family, siblings and connections.

In a spider’s web, all was bound. Malina considered her troubles many, but converging from all of that was the sense of belonging. She had claimed it as a dream of hers, the idea of building a place where the Gods Below could be worshipped without shame or danger. She had fled from it when Yarrien sought friendship from her. Her bonds with her old friends had been broken and scorched, and through the remnants she had cast a curse so foul it might have killed them all.

So she kneeled, and prayed. Poured her heart out in a deluge of broken words and half-formed phrases, swallowing the bile that threatened to spill whenever she touched on her weaknesses. The Witch spoke through gritted teeth and revealed her fears, in a moment that was sacred for her and only possible with such privacy.

Here, beneath the ground, kneeling to those she worshipped, Malina spoke truly – and was liberated in return.

***

It was a miracle that Malina heard Stella’s voice.

She was feeling feverish, sweaty after so long kneeling under the warm yellow lights of the wisps, and her long robe was dusty from the stone floor. When she rose to her feet, her heart a dozen times lighter and eyes puffy in a proof of her commitment to the bitter truth, her legs cramped. She walked slowly, every step sending a pang of tingling sensation up her calves.

Making for a quick goodbye, whispering her thankfulness to The Second and ensuring she didn’t steal a glimpse of the Decayed Hand, she left the prayer room behind. Her walk down the corridor was softer, the mosaics shining with more colors than she realized they had – and though Malina was in a hurry, she did smile to the pieces, her every touch an attempt to show the Gods Below of her gratitude.

Following the slow bending of the corridors, Malina soon found Stella – still naked, her hair covered in the same light blue veil – and an uncomfortable Yarrien, fidgeting beside her with his eyes rimmed red and sniffing at every second, a hand on his wooden cane.

Malina slowed at the scene, a surprising amount of worry sprouting as she saw Yarrien quake as if he had been beaten up – making her wonder if that’s what she had looked like after Stella was done with her. At the same time, the little giddiness at his success came unbidden, forming a confusing array of feelings. The time for contemplation was over, however, and Stella clicked her tongue as she saw the Witch appearing.

“Ah, finally. You’re here. C’mon, you two. It’s time I explain what will happen from now on.”

Malina stood by Yarrien’s side, trying to see what was wrong with him. He did seem entirely healthy, though his cane and the smell of burnt flowers indicated otherwise – that was usual, however, so he wasn’t crying because of that. Was it really Stella’s talk that left him like this?

Well, she could empathize with that. Gods know she was at the edge of crying by the time the whole interrogation was over.

Lost in thought, Malina didn’t notice the Flesh Matron unlock the door, entering the room with that usual languidness. Malina and Yarrien followed in silence, the young man not reacting to her poking him on the ribs.

Inside, Malina saw what might be the tiniest of the chapel rooms – small enough that she feared Lissandra wouldn’t be able to fit inside without leaving part of her tail out the door. The Lamia would have struggled, but for the trio it was barely space enough for them to move, not that there was much to do inside.

With a single table in the middle and a high-backed chair on the side opposite the door, Stella slowly sat on her reserved seat, crossing her legs like royalty before gesturing for the duo to sit as well. Malina and Yarrien did, though for them there were small stools in place instead of veritable thrones.

The table was empty, though the Witch noticed faint groves on its surface as if something had been jammed into it multiple times, forming a loose circle. Nodding at them, the Priestess pulled a small chest from behind her and opened it, leaving the contents hidden from them as she searched for something within. She talked as she worked.

“First things first, congratulations for the both of you. I’m glad to see that those we’ve chosen have met enough of our standards. Especially you, Yarrien – it’s always a rare thing for one of the chosen to not hail from a Coven of Dark Muses, and I expect many great things from you still.”

The young man had stopped sniffing, and took the compliment with surprise. His eyes glimmered as he sat with his back straight.

“Thank you, Priestess. It’s an honor.”

“That it is. And don’t make that face, Malina. Small hurdles aside, you’ve proven yourself worthy of our heritage under the eyes of the Nameless Ones, and that’s something to be proud of.”

She hadn’t realized she had been frowning. The Witch smoothed out her expressions, nodding at the Priestess.

“Thank you, sister.”

“Good. Now, we have much to talk about before we proceed to the next step. And although I believe you will be aware of much that will be spoken here, Yarrien didn’t benefit from an education like yours, Malina. You’ll answer to the best of your ability. Yarrien, you are allowed to ask questions.”

The young man nodded, and Malina adjusted herself on the stool. The Priestess took a small bag from the open chest, and spilled the contents onto the table, each one of the long nails striking wood. Malina blinked at the nine pieces of dark steel as Stella asked her first question.

“Right. Hm, where to start. Malina – what is the First Law of Power?”

“Oh. Might requires sacrifice.”

It was odd to be asked that. The Laws of Power were used more by Mages than Witches. Malina knew all three of them, but that didn’t make her any more certain of where this was going.

Stella rolled her eyes.

“And that means…?”

“Hm, anyone can be powerful if they give enough up?”

“Is that a question or an affirmative?”

Malina’s cheeks turned a shade darker.

“Sorry. An affirmative.”

“Hmph. Alright then, hold that in mind. Yarrien, how much do you know about Casters?”

The young man shifted on the stool, the black vest he wore hugging his small waist.

“I think… just the basics? They are those that can use magic, and they come in many – types? There’re Clerics, Bards, Mages – Witches as well.”

Yarrien scratched his cheek with an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, I looked more into Sorcerers than them.”

Stella rested her back on the chair and waved a hand at him, dismissing his worries.

“It’s fine. Although you make an interesting distinction. Are Sorcerers different from Casters? Malina?”

“Hm. Well, every Sorcerer is a Caster – it’s part of what makes them so powerful – and when they gain their first Title and Abilities, they can choose which Core to take if they don’t have any. A great honor.”

The Witch stole a glance at Yarrien’s face. He had no Core, but Sorcery would remedy that when it reshaped his body.

“Correct – but not an answer. Could I call Sorcerers a type of Caster? Like Witches?”

Malina tilted her head.

“I mean – maybe? They wield a type of magic in a way. But the books I’ve read usually place them as separate things.”

And they were the most up to date books she had managed to grab. The mansion didn’t have a great library, but the Coven had always tried to ensure Malina got a good enough education on more common topics, though much of it was largely dependent on the young woman’s own interest in pursuing knowledge.

Stella’s lips rose in a small smile.

“Fascinating. Apologies for the small sidetrack – I just wanted to know what the youth thought nowadays. As for the question, it’s a tricky one. The answer largely depends on how well-loved Sorcerers are at the moment. When I was your age? Gods Below, people would fight over Sorcerous Cores like they were treasures. We have fallen out of grace these past centuries however – therefore, the distinction.”

Malina nodded, eyes wide as she held onto every word. She had no idea that was a thing! If that means Sorcerers were once a type of Caster, how were the other types organized then? Subcasters? Pure Casters?

The ramifications were many – but she didn’t have the time to research further, though she did file it down for later. She had to refocus on Stella as the Priestess made another question, plucking a second bag from the chest and pouring its content on the table. Eighteen flat seeds, shaped like a disc and each one with a cross carved on one side.

“Now, Yarrien. How does one become a Caster?”

“They need to have a Core first, right? So they are either born with it – or they can become a Sorcerer, like Malina said.”

Stella nodded.

“Correct – but that makes little sense, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Malina questioned, a small frown on her eyebrows. The Priestess’s amber eyes met her own.

“Think about it. If all power demands a sacrifice, what could a baby give to be worthy of such potential? And how does someone else achieve that?”

The first question stumped Malina, making her think – but the second one was easy enough to answer.

“Then they need to become a Sorcerer. That’s…”

How it is. Her frown turned deeper, and Malina began to feel doubt creeping in. She didn’t know which part bothered her so, but something about that thought was…

She looked up, and Stella was smiling at her. A full smile, revealing the split between perfect teeth and those that had fallen or decayed with age. The Flesh Matron turned to Yarrien then.

“You said you knew more about Sorcerers. Can you tell me what they give up for power?”

For a second, Yarrien looked stump, before carefully answering.

“Hm, well, everyone I’ve talked to says it’s a lot – but no one ever specified what exactly. Oh, wait! In Intra, there was one of Uncle’s clients that said they were ready for ‘The Final Sacrifice’. Would that be it?”

“I’ve heard that before. The Final Sacrifice. The Last Pain. It’s a way of telling others that choosing to become a Sorcerer is something final. There are no stepbacks from it. Ah, Rivia once said there were only three fates for a Sorcerer: life, death or–”

“Turning.”

Malina completed, barely realizing she had interrupted. Stella somberly nodded.

“Exactly. But now, what do we have? To become a Caster, one needs to have a Core – which they can either be born with or gain it through Sorcery. However, power demands sacrifice, and a baby has nothing to give so it is a weird statement. Even more than that, if a Sorcerer can simply drink a potion and become a Caster, what about people that spend their lives working and sacrificing for a goal? Shouldn’t they become powerful as well?”

Stella plucked a few of the iron nails, as long as a finger, and began to place them on the weathered groves on the table as she spoke, her two listeners entranced by her words.

“If a believer spends their life worshipping a God, giving decades of their time and the sweat of their brows in adoration, shouldn’t they be able to feel the power of faith like a Cleric does? If an artist sings until their throats bleed, meditates on every lyric, tunes every presented emotion so that they can make a great performance, then why can’t they cast like a Bard?”

Stella placed the last nail on the table, leaving them sticking halfway out on top, and grinned at the duo like a gladiator smiled at their enemy.

“If might requires sacrifice, then why is some people’s sacrifice more valuable than others?”

Malina struggled to think of an answer. She looked at Yarrien, and the young man was blinking quickly as he tried to process the question. The young Witch, in her part, could only attempt the same.

Why then? A baby gave nothing for their Core – they were just born with it, and at most could feel some discomfort as their metaphysical self grew alongside their physical one. A Sorcerer had to pay the price, and like Yarrien said it was a steep one, but that was just one way of sacrificing for might.

Should everyone make the Final Sacrifice then? Her version of half a minute ago would have said so, but now Malina was unsure. Imagine having to give up even more of yourself to feel only a smidgeon of power when people could be simply… born with it.

She grimaced. Gods Below, she would have hated every second of it – a life of commitment just to, in the end, receive nothing for it while others got every gift with half the effort?

“Yes, that’s what I’m talking about. Awful, isn’t it? A lifetime of effort paling in comparison of sheer luck? It would leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth – and that’s why our forebears have created other methods to make it fair.”

“Ah. An Initiation. That’s what it is?”

Yarrien asked, connecting the dots faster than Malina did. Stella nodded.

“Exactly. For the faithful of the Gods Below, a way to repay their servitude was made. Through rituals and trials, those that managed to weather their touch could rise again, reborn under their eyes, as Priests and Priestesses of The Nameless Ones. They would learn their old rites, and bear the responsibility and honor of creating new ones, all while being closely attuned to two of the Gods Below in particular – which would grant them Gifts.”

Ah. Malina felt it click in her mind. That’s how they did it.

“Gifts?”

She couldn’t help but ask, and Stella answered without hesitation.

“Indeed. Two of them, each one pertaining to the Gods that claimed you as their own. One you shall receive if you survive the Initiation, and it will grow with your faith. The other is to be granted if you prove yourself worthy once more.”

“Once more?”

Yarrien echoed, receiving a nod from the Priestess, and all Malina could think about was how much more sense her title made now. It made her frustrated in part, to have been denied all this knowledge – but the giddiness she felt overtook any bad feelings.

There was just so much more to discover! She had thought she knew enough about her Gods, being raised as one of the faithful – but simple conversations with Stella had threatened to splinter her entire understanding of how they worked. The Witch couldn’t help but expect great things from the Initiation, though she didn’t restrict herself to finding answers only then.

Clearing her throat, Malina called for the Flesh Matron’s attention.

“I know that the others went through their Initiation as well, but… how did that work for you, Sister? Which one of them claimed you?

Stella listened, then relaxed once more on the back of her chair. She was fiddling with something that she had taken from the chest – some manner of softly grey rope, braided thinly.

“Well, at first, my Initiation was different from how yours will occur. I was already a Sorcerer back then – and my original Core was that of a Cleric, my faith belonging to The Sixth. Myself, Rivia and Charlotte were Initiated together – Kassia and Lissandra were later additions to the Coven. The Sixth still claimed me in the end, though a different epithet than the one I was expecting. I’ll let the others tell you which one of the Gods claimed them, it’s not my story to tell… although it wouldn’t be hard to discern. But still, manners.”

Malina nodded, though the answer seemed to make Yarrien curious. Slowly, he raised a hand, and Stella gestured for him to speak.

“What does that make you, exactly?”

The Priestess’s eyes opened wide, then chuckled. Yarrien’s cheeks turned bruised with embarrassment, but Stella calmed him down.

“Apologies, Yarrien. There’s just been too long since anyone asked me for my full titles like that. Once upon a time, Sorcerers would meet each other with a long list of their accomplishments – it got annoying fast, especially when people hired heralds to do the job – but… it did bring back fun memories.”

She smiled softly, reminiscing, before letting the rope of what Malina was certain was braided flesh rest on the table. With a clear throat, Stella began.

“I’m Maristella Juran of Old Port Antigone. Flesh Matron of The Coven of Lost Daughters. Dark Muse of The Fourth Circle. High Cleric of The Nameless Ones. Priestess of Apathy and Art. And I can make an absolutely perfect moqueca.”

The duo blinked at her and Stella guffawed. Yarrien asked confusedly.

“A perfect… what?”

“A moqueca. A fish stew with palm oil, coconut milk, shrimps – well, whatever seafood you manage to find. Very tasty.”

Malina was so confused at the sudden change of tone she was slipping from the stool. The Witch managed to gather her bearings enough to ask a question of her own.

“What does – that have to do with anything.”

Stella grinned at her.

“Nothing. That’s the purpose. It’s an old tradition. If a Sorcerer came to you with their full greeting? Well, that was as close to a challenge as one could get. To remedy that we throw in a harmless tidbit of information, like that. It ensures we are meeting under truce or as friendly acquaintances.”

“That’s… actually pretty clever.”

Malina could imagine why there was a necessity for that. Sorcerers were known for being… unstable was too unkind of a word, for all that it was precise. Volatile. And knowing her Sisters – well, things could get ugly quickly if all the others were like them.

“It is, isn’t it? But let’s get back on track for now. Your Initiation is special in a different way. You two are not Sorcerers, but will be by the time this is over with. And that has its advantages–”

Stella peered into Yarrien’s eyes, leaving it unsaid but clear of what she was referring to.

“--and disadvantages.”

“Will it be risky? Doing the two of them at the same time?”

Yarrien asked, and Stella grimaced a bit. The Priestess was tying the braided flesh around the dark iron nails, forming that same shape of the pool in the main chapel. An enneagon.

“If I were to lie I’d say it’s safe – but we can’t be sure. If it has been attempted before, it was before our time. It’s… a risk we are willing to take, considering the necessity.”

Malina nodded.

“Rivia’s plan.”

“And Yarrien’s condition. There’s more to the world than our machinations.”

The Witch winced, the quick chastisement biting at her. She whispered an apology and Stella’s sharp glare softened a little.

“Regardless, it’s impossible to know if it will be harder or easier to do it during your Initiation. Maybe the Gods Below will see fit to help you with it.”

The Priestess shrugged.

“There’s more that you need to know. The Initiation will last for nine nights, and it’s mandatory that you are in the chapel before the sun finishes setting each day. We allow you to roam while the sun’s up, but the purification rites can only happen during the early night. Don’t be late.”

Malina and Yarrien nodded like children, their heads bobbing up and down.

“Good. Now, there’s one last thing we must do before I release you for the night.”

The Priestess plucked two dangling orbs from the chest on the table, and held them in her hand.

“What would that be, Priestess?”

Yarrien questioned, but Malina was focused on the small spheres. For a moment they looked like…

She should have paid attention. The Witch should have known by now that Stella only grinned like that when she had a punch ready for your face.

“We must learn which of the Gods have laid a claim on your soul. And to do that, only the oldest of augurs will suffice.”

Without hesitation, as Malina finally comprehended what the spheres were, Stella raised a hand–

–And plucked out her eye.