Light poured through the stained glass, being broken up into a dance of rainbow colors. Luminant colorful dots dashed around the grand hall. Painting dark wood and gray stone into a plethora of hues. The room simple. 12 rows of wooden benches, a red carpet that ran through the center separating the room into two, a commonality to separate the men and women, and the middle stage. A slightly raised platform made of the same stone as the rest of the structure. Behind the stage, near the middle window, stood a pedestal made of rough stone, its length engraved with sigils. A small crystal the size of an apple floated above it. One of the smaller divinity crystals Mithra had seen. Which was expected. The smaller towns generally did not have their own, having to borrow from the capital or rely on their own abilities. A crystal this small would allow the divinity user to do small tasks. It could probably light the church at most. Its surface raw. An unmemorable-looking mineral with misty opaque sides the color of milk. The clearer the crystal, the more power it could hold.

Larger crystals were powerhouses that could power whole cities. Smaller, clearer crystals could be just as powerful. The strongest Divinity crystal he had seen was only a bit larger than the one here but was so clear it had become translucent. His own Divinity crystal was the size of a small village and an opaque milky color. He had only seen it a few times. The first being when he was sworn in as a Sol Knight. A piece of the crystal was engraved into his forehead that day. Scars long silvered over spread like roots from the small piece. The piece allowed him to connect to divinity, unlike the use of Chaos, a heretic act. Divinity had to be earned. Only gifted to those worthy.

The long rectangular building had 6 large windows, each displaying a scene from the great creation. The stained window panels were the only thing that stood out in this Temple. The northern temples were one of the simpler ones he had seen. It made sense. The region was poorer. Constantly ravaged by chaosstorms. Winters were tough, bringing along months of Ice Storms. A devastating phenomenon that left only havoc in its wake, a mixture of primordial Chaos and the natural elements. Constant storms made it hard for the area to prosper. Everything was less sophisticated. Rough and haggard looking.

However, even in the North where the days were not as long. Midday was his preferred time of worship. It was when the sun perfectly came through the middle glass pane. Every Sol Church was built with this function in mind. It was supposed to inspire believers. The stained-glass pictures almost came to life in the light. Each few hours, the position of the sun would change, and a new panel would take precedence. There was a feeling of the ethereal during midday. When the sun was at its highest point, coming through the ceiling window, which was made in such a way that the light would reflect on all windowpanes. During midday, when the sun was the strongest, he could feel Solias. The rays soaked with his holy presence. It was exhilarating.

The middle pane displayed a key part of their creation when the god Solias chose his high priest. The golden figure of Solias, hair flowing gold, when the sun hit the stained glass it, glowed with the warmth of the sun, gifting the power of divination to his favorite disciple. He, too, believed himself to be the resemblance of Solias. A perfect follower. The student an undistinguished dark form of a person. Man or woman, they did not know. The form was dark, a stark contrast against the otherwise colorful panel. It was to symbolize the darkness before Solias, it symbolized Chaos before divinity.

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A chaos they had yet to rid the world of. The weavers, just the thought, brought disgust. Dirty heretics. Repulsive- just the thought had his blood boiling. He grimaced; nonbelievers should die. Die from his hand, the righteous hand of god, born to commit the will of Sol. The sun shifted, casting him into the shadow of the high priest.

Today, he was dressed in the preferred priestly garb. A bleached linen gown as white as it could be. The gown was cinched at the waist with a belt of intricate design sown from golden thread. Red embroidery decorated it starting from the neck of the gown. A few lines of embroidery marked his upper left arm. The embroidery showed his status as a Sol Knight. Red symbolizing the blood he had sworn to spill for Solias. The designs telling of his accomplishments. His own covered most of the robe. He covered his head with a white shawl held in place by a skinny headband, also red.

He always came to the Temple before a hunt.

The door creaked open, and he straightened. Checking his face, making sure whatever unsightly expression had been on his face was replaced with a moderate smile. Enough to be trustworthy but not strong enough as to make him seem dimwitted. Never dimwitted, a Knight must always protect the image of his master.

“Your Grace, may thy light never dim,” spoke the short man.

A priest of the northern church. He was older, with a head full of curly grey hair and a plump face. When he smiled, his fat cheeks squished, his eyes half shut. Unsightly. The priest wore a simple white robe adorned with nothing but a golden belt. The people of the North were ignorant and not as devout as the Southerners. In the south, the sun shone longer; here, darkness prevailed for most of the year. Which made his job here the more important. The Southerner priests covered their hair, especially those whose likenesses were inadequate. He covered his hair to show his devotion, his golden locks hidden under the white veil.

Mithra towered over most people. In his armor even more so. A lifetime of training had made him large not only in stature but physique as well. The holy attire did nothing to hide that. He looked down at the plump man.

“Your luminousness- may the light never dim,” he greeted.

If he wanted to, he could have killed the unsightly man with just his bare hands. But violence in the Temple was not allowed. The Temple was holy ground but, he glanced at the open door, the outside was not. The man seemed to shrink away from him as if sensing his intent. Mithra checked his face and forced a smile. The commonfolk feared him and what he could do. As they should, he thought.

The priest attempted to hide his fear with a smile, his wide eyes and shuddering figure giving him away, “I have come to bless you.”

Mithra forced his disgust down. The high priest had warned him against stirring issues in the North. Their hold on the North was too weak. The people remained skeptical that the death of a false priest might make things worse.

“Then blessing I shall receive.” He got down on one knee, not at face level with the man.

With a trembling hand, the priest touched his left shoulder, then his right, and finally rested a hand on the top of his head. It steadied for a moment.

“Let Solias protect your light. Let the flame ignite and burn. The light of Solias will guide you on your mission tonight,” the blessing was quick, a jumble of words and phrases. The false priest retreating as quickly as he had come.

Big things were to come to the North.