“I just don’t understand why you have to go right now,” Sylvie stood in the doorway as Dean examined his armor. Arno’s pieces had held up well in the attack, leaving only a pair of small scratches from the boss's talons along his right pauldron. But the damage wasn’t serious enough to warrant a repair.

  “I know.”

  When she realized he wasn’t going to argue, his sister’s shoulders slumped.

  “Dean, you just got out of medical. Give yourself time to heal at least. I’m worried about you, you know.”

  He straightened, checking the clasp that held his sword buckled to his belt. Then, finally, he turned to look at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, catching her off guard. “I know I’ve caused you to worry about me. In fact, you’ve always worried for me… ever since mom passed away. I know I wasn’t exactly a good brother.”

  “Dean,” Sylvie started, her voice wavering, but he shook his head. He wouldn’t run from this. On campaign, he’d had time to think of what he would have said to his sister if he could go back. The things he’d apologize for, the things he’d set right. Now it was his chance to live up to the promises he’d made himself long ago, and he couldn’t let the chance slip between his fingers.

  “It’s alright,” he smiled sadly, rubbing at the back of his neck with a gloved hand. “I’m not looking for comfort. How I behaved after mom’s death… the man I became?” he shook his head. “I was lazy and selfish. I know my actions hurt you, even though you did your best to hide it from me. Because that’s who you are, isn’t it? You’re strong, and you always put your needs above those of others. You took care of me, Sylvie, even when you had every right to throw me out. And for that I’ll always be grateful.”

  “Why… why are you saying this?”

  Tears began to fall, and Sylvie stiffened, turning her face to try to hide her emotion. It was just like her, he realized. Even now she didn’t want her feelings to show. He felt a swell of emotion wash over him and without thinking Dean closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her head into his shoulder.

  “Because,” he said, his voice a little raspier than usual past the lump in his throat. “You always had to be the strong one. Day in and day out, you saw to it that we had everything we needed. I think somewhere along the way, you forgot that you could rely on me, too. When’s the last time someone told you it was going to be alright?”

  Sylvie gripped his armor, and moments later he heard the patter of her tears against the plate. Her body shook as he held her, and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

  This time, I’ll protect you, mark my words. Nothing or no one will harm you.

  It was more than a duty, it was a promise – one he had every intention of keeping. At last, Sylvie pushed away from him, dragging an arm across her face.

  “Who are you and where did you put my brother's body?” she joked, a small smile returning to her face. Then she sucked in a breath and looked around his nearly empty room. Her eyes landed on the made bed with its smooth wool blanket.

  “So, this is it. You’ve earned your badge, and you’re going out into the world to.. to become an Adventuerer. Shit, I got to admit it, D I never thought you actually had it in you.”

  “Ouch.”

  She laughed as she smoothed away the tears and pushed playfully at his shoulder.

  “You know what I mean. You went from a scrawny kid who drank too much and slept his wife away to..” her throat bobbed. “To a young man that mom would be proud of.”

  It was Dean’s turn to fight the well of emotion. He cleared his throat, turning away to hide the burning in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose I have come a long way.”

  The silence between them was comfortable. Dean looked out the window of his bedroom and into the dirty alleyway beyond their backyard, and his sister with her hands clasped, a sad smile on her face. At last his sister took in a breath and straightened in the doorway.

  “Alright,” she said with resigned finality. “I see that this is something you have to do, and I want you to know that even though I don’t fully understand why, I still support you. And that’s why I want to give you something.”

  Dean turned back to her, his brows rising.

  “Give me something?”

  But his sister was already walking away, heading down the stairs with a determined gait that brooked no argument. Baffled, Dean took one last look around his childhood room before turning to follow. Sylvie didn’t slow her pace. She was focused, and that look in her eye reminded Dean of their mother as she threw open the back door to the house.

  “Where are we going?” asked Dean, but Sylvie paid him no mind. She strode purposefully towards the small makeshift force in the shed outback, leaving him to scramble after her. The air within the shed held the faint taint of metal and coal. Sylvie removed a pair of gloves from her apron pocket, sliding them on as she moved towards the back.

  Dean came to a halt in front of the anvil at a loss for what to do. He’d never really been allowed in her forge since the time he’d tipped over a quench bucket and ruined several of her horseshoe orders when she was a green apprentice. He could still remember the dressing down she’d given him. Back then, his sister could have given Captain Ripley a run for his money.

  Sylvie disappeared around the rough wooden counter set against the wall, and Dean frowned as he heard the sound of clinking.

  “Before I give you this, I want you to promise me something. Promise that you’ll look after yourself, Dean. I know how dangerous your profession is. I’m not a fool. But for the love of the gods, I need to know you’ll try not to be too reckless.”

  Dean grimaced.

  “You have my word that I’ll try,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee my safety.”

  Not with the path I know have to walk. Dean kept the last part to himself, though his sister's silence made him think a part of her already knew.

  “Alright then,” she said. “Then I’ll hold you to it.”

  She straightened, hefting something in her arms. Dean cocked his head, unsure of what he was looking at. The thing was large and long, wrapped entirely in black linen. Sylvie ran a hand over the wrappings, her face gentle.

  “So far, this is my greatest creation,” she said softly, moving towards him and holding it out. “And I made it for you.”

  Dean took the bundle in his hands. It was heavier than he had imagined – a testament to the strength of practiced blacksmiths. Carefully, he ran a hand over the bindings, finding one of the strands' edges.

  “Go ahead,” said his sister, taking a step back. Dean pulled at the band, and slowly the black linen unraveled to reveal the glint of steel. Dean gaped as a sword, one larger than any he’d ever seen on the battlefield, was revealed. It was roughly the length of a great sword, with a sharpened tip and a narrow guard. But the blade itself was wide, its honed edges gleaming as he turned it over. And the weight of it…

  “It’s beautiful,” he said as he flipped it over in his hands. The linen fell to the ground, and Dean took up the sword in both hands. The weight was higher than he was used to, and his muscles strained as he took up a stance. Carefully, he gave an experimental swing, and the blade whipped through the air, generating enough wind that it knocked over several empty pails in the corner.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, lowering the sword. “Sylvie, it’s a beautiful piece, but I’m not strong enough to wield something this large indefinitely. This sword could cut a grown man in half.”

  His sister held her head high, her gaze unwavering.

  “It’s the sword for you. I don’t know why or how I know… but several weeks ago, I got this overwhelming feeling that I needed to help you in some way. And so I studied you. I watched you train in the backyard with your sword and observed you as best I could. I’m no sword master, but I know how you fight. Power, strength, and brute force are your best attributes. So, with the help of my mentors, I got to work making you a blade that can stand up to anything.”

  She looked down.

  “You may not be strong enough to wield it yet, but if you train and apply yourself, you will be. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. So that’s part of your promise to me.”

  She met his gaze.

  “Train hard and don’t you dare settle for anything less. Sure, you’re not noble, and you weren’t born to a family that owns a merchantile faction or a city. But that’s never stopped you before, and it sure as shit won’t stop you now.”

  Dean knelt, picking up the linen in his hand as he wound it back around the sword. He caught a glimpse of himself in the steel; his blue eyes seemed to burn with renewed intensity. Sylvie was right. He was here for a reason, and it was in his best interest not to forget it.

  He took the ends of the linen, tying them to themselves before fashioning a backshift strap, which he tied so the sword rested along his back.

  “Thank you,” he said, meeting her gaze. There was so much more he wanted to say, but in the end, words seemed to fail him. Sylvie gave him one last look before storming past him back towards the house. He knew she was hurting, despite her words. And still, he knew by the weight now resting at his back that she was proud of him.

  So Dean hefted his sword and took one last look at the house he had grown up in. At the force, at the yard, and at the pair of gardening gloves that still rested on the outside fence. They were worn, so much so that the floral pattern on them had long since faded. But there was no mistaking who they had belonged to.

  Dean was going to leave Haven at least for now. He needed to go to the temple and face his manifestation. His destiny. And then…. Then only time would tell.

  But there was one thing he needed to do first.

  He let his feet carry him down the old, familiar path. Wending around houses and between buildings until he saw the old iron fence sitting open. He walked through it, feeling lighter with each step until he reached his destination. Middle row, third on the right. He’d memorized this path as a boy.

  He came to a halt, gazing down at the patch of earth before him. There was no fancy marble headstone or casket here. Their family never could have afforded it, especially after the cost of her medical expenses. But the small, round river stone had her name carved on it. And that was enough for him.

  “Hey, Mom,” said Dean softly. “It’s been a long time.”

  ***

  It was nightfall, and Dean was exhausted. Every step felt like agony, but still he went on, unwilling to stop or rest. When he had first arrived at the temple of the gods, it had been at the base of the steps. The wound upwards, through the trees and beyond the hills above, seeming endless.

  At times, the steps themselves nearly disappeared into the rocky side of the hill, marked only by the occasional mounted torch that lit the way up. And so Dean climbed. Almost an hour later, his breathing was heavy and his brow slick with sweat. When he looked up, he could see the tips of the curving temple roof sloping above him. He was nearly there.

  The top steps were free of any moss, leaves, or lichen. As he climbed the building itself came into view, large, ornate, and imperious. Dean had only ever seen smaller city shrines before. Never the imposing hall of the gods that the monks inhabited. And still, here he was at the Riverlands temple of the south at last.

  When he reached the top step, Dean finally paused to drink from his canteen. The water was cooling, soothing the burning of the cool air at his throat. It was mid-autumn now, and the leaves were beginning to turn. Soon they would fall, ushering in another winter.

  “Is it not beautiful?”

  The voice startled him, and Dean turned to see a man sitting on a pillar before him, his legs dangling down. The man was small by human standards and quite old if his silver goatee was any indication. But beneath his monk's robes, it was clear that he still maintained the fitness standards that all monks seemed to possess.

  “What?” asked Dean, his mind still a bit hazy from the exertion of the climb. The monk pointed a gnarled finger, and Dean turned to look off the hill. It was clear of trees, and his eyes widened when he realized he could see for miles. Far below them lay the city of Haven, its upper city streets still teeming with nightlife. Many of the buildings were lit from within, giving off a soft glow that seemed to linger. Small blobs of light bobbed back and forth as people carried lanterns down their streets.

  The monk was right, it was as beautiful as it was strange.

  “The city looks so small from here,” he said as his eyes raked over the scene.

  “Yes, it really is a matter of perspective. One often sees things differently when we look from a new angle. Such is the way of solving life's problems, eh?”

  Dean turned back towards the man, opening his mouth to answer. But just then, the doors to the temple slid open, and two figures in temple robes rushed out.

  “Okta, quit terrorizing the newcomers, you old fool,” A homely woman with kind eyes and a stern face bustled towards them, her sandals raising small puffs of dust as she walked. “Ignore him, boy, he seems only to have wisdom for new Adventurers when he’s on his fifth drink.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” the old monk waved a hand. “I’m only on my third, and besides, Karoka hardly counts. It is a gift of the gods, a drink for warmth, resilience, and clarity.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Is that why you shit yourself after getting plastered the other night?”

  Okta’s scowl was legendary as the monk shook his head. He leveraged himself up, shimmying down the pole with a surprising show of agility and precision for someone his age.

  “Now now, that was an accident. I already told you that I ate something unagreeable that night.”

  “You ate rock shrimp and rice. What’s so unagreeable about that?”

  Okta puffed out his cheeks.

  “Your cooking,” he said matter-of-factly, earning him a glare from the woman. “You couldn’t season shrimp if you fell face-first into a vat of spices holding them. And why is the rice always dry?”

  “Why you little-“

  “Enough.” The third figure came to a stop before them, wearing an expression of exasperation.

  “How many times have I told you not to bicker in front of our guests?”

  The other two looked somewhat sheepish, and both stepped aside as the woman moved forward, her open robes swishing. Her body was wrapped in a multicolored cloth that rose all the way up her neck. The cloth even extended far enough to cover her upper face and eyes, leaving only her mouth visible. On her head was an ornate headdress whose beads jingled every time she moved her head.

  “My apologies, priestess,” said the homely woman. “We were jesting.”

  “Mmmm.” The priestess nodded her head once, though her frown displayed her displeasure. “Your apology is accepted. But please keep in mind that the temple is a spiritual experience for most, and not to be taken lightly or mocked. For this is the place of the gods, where they will manifest.”

  Both the monk and the woman clasped their hands, bowing deeply at the waist.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Very good. Then the two of you are dismissed. Go and prepare a meal of leftovers for this weary traveler. Dean and I have much to discuss.”

  Dean glanced up in surprise.

  “You know my name?”

  The priestess turned back towards him, and her painted lips curved upwards.

  “But of course. The climb is long and you must be weary. Come inside and take a moment of rest. I can have the monks take your supplies and deliver them to your room.”

  “Room?” Dean glanced between them. “How long will I be staying?”

  The Priestess tilted her head, beads jangling.

  “That depends on you. The process of manifesting a class is rather complex, it must be said. This path is as much spiritual as it is physical. Both your mind and body must recover from the ordeal in order for you to be whole again.”

  Recover? Dean ran a hand subconsciously along the scar on his shoulder as his mind played back to what he knew about class manifestation. Choosing a general class was as easy as going into the class menu and examining the options available to you. What a person could manifest was highly dependent on who they were and what natural skills they possessed. No one knew how the system or the heavens themselves determined what classes should appear to whom. But regardless, one was tasked with choosing their class, path, and career before they turned eighteen years old.

  Manifesting an Adventuerer class, however, was an entirely different matter. Manifesting one of the seven classes required the awakening of one's ability to use and manipulate essence, and how that worked, he couldn’t be sure.

  “Thank you,” he said, allowing the monk to take his pack and weapons. Dean reached up, unwrapping the strap that held his new sword.

  “Careful,” he said, handing it over. “It’s-“

  The monk staggered under the weight, grunting as he hefted the thing.

  “Good gods above, what kind of weapon is this. You climbed the two hundred steps carrying this monster on your back?”

  Dean shrugged in response, and the monk shook his head.

  “Young people,” he muttered as he headed for the side door around the temple gardens. “Always showing off.”

  The priestess made a muffled noise that sounded a lot like a sigh of exasperation before sweeping a hand towards the door.

  “My apologies, Mr. Thompson. Please come with me. I will give you a tour of the grounds and the temple before you prepare for the ritual. Tell me, is there a god you pay homage to?”

  Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, following her ducked through the doors. The soft smell of incense and cedar hit him, and he gazed around at the decorative paneling in the entrance hall.

  “No,” he admitted. “I never… I mean, my sister and I aren’t very religious.”

  “And your parents? Are they also unaffiliated?”

  Dean hesitated before following the woman down the side hall. She was moving at a measured pace, hands in the sleeves of her robe.

  “My mother died years ago of illness,” he said after a moment. “She did believe.. at least as far as I know. I saw her praying at the shrine of Nephrine every morning for a year before her body gave out on her. I think maybe she thought that the Goddess of Vitality and Fluidity might take pity on her. But each day she got sicker and sicker. And in the end…” He trailed off, and the priestess bowed her head.

  “And your father?”

  Dean’s jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might break.

  “What father?” he said, the words coming out in a harsher growl than he intended. “I never knew the man. And I neither know nor care who he prays to.”

  “Forgive me,” The priestess slowed her pace, turning her covered face towards him.

  “It was not my intention to pry. You have my condolences and sympathy for what you’ve gone through. The loss of a parent is something no young child should have to suffer. That said, it is my responsibility as a spiritual guide to determine where you are in your path.”

  She came to a stop in a doorway wreathed with dark cloth. The cloth seemed to ripple as if from a breeze inside the room itself.

  “And so I must ask you: Do you believe you are prepared to face the gods?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dean honestly. To his surprise, the Priestess smiled.

  “That is as it should be. Come, stand in the room of ages with me while I brew the concoction. In order to commune with the gods, you will need to ascend this spiritual plane, and you cannot do so without it.”

  She swept aside the curtain, and Dean took in a deep breath before following. The room itself was of moderate size, its long walls covered in tapestries and paintings. Instantly, Dean recognized many of them. These were the gods in all their splendor, battling foes or sitting in judgment upon their heavenly thrones.

  The Priestess walked to the end of the room, where a classic alchemy table stood. Mounted on shelves behind her were many ingredients, from dry herbs to jars of floating reptiles and insects. Dean moved towards the paintings, studying them in the flickering light of the lit candles.

  He saw Valnir, the god of war and ascendancy, battling a giant snake with a glowing spear. On his back were wings of pure flame, and the snake itself seemed to shy from the very light his power exuded. On the painting beside him was a muscular man wielding a great warhammer, his head tilted to the sky as he let out a warcry.

  “Jorn,” said the Priestess without turning around. “The god of Strength and the mighty. He who is giant-blooded – or so it is said.”

  “Don’t the barbarians worship him?”

  “They do, and have for many centuries. While he is known to be a just patron god, it is said that he values only strength above all else. Those who choose to align with him have a similar disposition.” Her bottles clinked as she poured something into a measuring vial, holding it up to the candlelight to check its contents.

  Dean moved on, passing several other gods’ depictions before stopping before another.

  “And her?”

  “Aven, the goddess of haste and trickery many who choose the path of the rogue find favor with her. She is quick to give our boons but just as fast to revoke them. Stay on her good side, should you choose to commune with her or you may find yourself in deep water.”

  Dean looked past her towards the bald god sitting atop a platform on a mountain. He was wearing monks robes – similar to Ten’s robes but much finer and more resplendent.

  “He’s-“

  “Hanzo,” said Dean. “The god of patient victory.”

  “Indeed. He is known to favor those who choose the martial path, although he’s been known to bless those who favor the sword and spear as well. As for his disposition, it’s said that he is elusive. Should you commune with him once, it’s unlikely you will ever do so again. However, should you value other attributes, you might consider making your offering to the gods of wisdom or greater magic, respectively. Though their expectations that their students study the arts are strict, an education in an academy might appeal to you.”

  “Thank you for your suggestion, but there is nothing the academy can teach me that I can’t learn in the field or from a good mentor.”

  Dean turned away from the wall of gods to the tapestry situated at the center of the room. It was larger than the others, and on it were depicted the first saints. There were seven of them all told. The Martial Saint, Rogue Saint, Sword Saint, Archer Saint, Caster Saint, and last but not least…. Dean stared at the founding spear saint, feeling the familiar anger boil up in him. Although this man had died nearly eight hundred years ago, his resemblance to Isaac Alarin was enough to make his stomach clench.”

  “Are they really the descendants of the gods? The first saints, I mean.”

  The priestess pressed down on a pedal with her foot, raising the flames over a phial. She took so long in answering that Dean wondered if she’d heard him over the noise.

  “It is believed that they are,” she said. “Certainly, most evidence points that way. To ascend the ranks as an Adventurer is a perilous but rewarding path. Those who ascend beyond the diamond have the opportunity to vie for sainthood, but few are ever able to reach that level of mastery. Historically, usually only the descendants of the noble families, whose lineage can trace back to the first saints themselves, have ever achieved such a feat. Though there have been some exceptions.”

  Dean turned, his brow furrowing.

  “There have? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of saints that weren’t of noble blood.”

  The Priestess tilted the pial, pouring the liquid into a small ceramic cup. She blew on it, and steam billowed around the room, giving it a hazy appearance.

  “I am not surprised. These instances were few and far between, and it is not a stretch to say that the nobility are… wary of attention on such matters. They fear perhaps that it would undermine their authority if the masses knew that they were not the only ones who could ascend so far.”

  Dean raised an eyebrow.

  “A bit bold for a priestess. Though I can appreciate the message, I can’t imagine the nobility would take kindly to such a thing being spread around. Aren’t you afraid of retaliation if they were to find out?”

  “And how would they find out? Would you tell them?” The priestess’s tone was light, and he could have sworn he saw a feint smirk on her painted lips.

  “No,” he said, grinning.

  “Then there is no danger. What the nobility do not know can’t hurt them. Now, the concoction is complete, and by now, the ritual chamber should be ready. If you wish, it can be delayed a few hours or even days. This decision is not one to be made lightly, and no one would judge or blame you if you wanted time to think on it. Our rooms and facilities are fully open to all those who have earned their badges.”

  Dean stared at the steaming mug in her hand. The dark blue liquid within seemed to swirl even though she stood still. He took in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

  “There’s no need to delay. I’m ready.”

  “Are you certain? I am compelled to inform you that once the ritual begins, it cannot be stopped or interrupted. This journey is spiritual and will take much out of you in mind, body, and soul alike. Though each journey is unique, you should prepare yourself for the possibility that you may not succeed. Often, the gods can be elusive. Communing with them, while a great honor, is difficult for most mortals. Your spirit cannot stay in the spirit realm for very long, for if you do, you may find yourself… lost.”

  The way she said the word made Dean’s neck prickle.

  “Lost? You mean dead?”

  The Priestess slowly shook her head, the beads of her headdress rattling.

  “No, death is an uncommon occurrence during the ascendancy ritual. By lost, I am referring to the soul itself. The spirit realm is the jurisdiction of the immortals, not a place for creatures like humans to dabble for very long. During your time there, you may experience things… memories, visions, perhaps even hallucinations. Whether they are real or not is impossible to tell, but they are part of your journey. Stay on the path and do not stray. When you find what you are seeking, return as quickly as you can. For to stay is to risk losing oneself.”

  She stepped forward, passing the cup to him. Dean took it, feeling the warmth of the liquid through his hands.

  “If you are certain you are prepared, Dean Thompson, then I will gladly show you the way.”

  “I’m certain.” The words were soft, and yet they carried with them all of the burning determination he now felt. The priestess smiled, and he could have sworn he saw a hint of sadness to it as she swept past him towards the doorway. Dean followed, feeling like each step was heavy.

  This was it – the culmination of everything he’d worked for. The chance to ascend and finally manifest his class.

  “To unlock the power to wield essence, one must ignite the spark,” the priestess tapped the center of his breastplate. “Only a god has that power, though what you choose to do with that spark is outside of even their control.”

  She moved down the hall towards a set of doors that loomed in the distance. On the wooden doors were carved depictions of the gods themselves, battling monsters outside of time and space itself. It was as beautiful a work of art as it was imposing, and Dean had no doubt that the monk who carved it must have spent months if not years perfecting its curves and polish.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said as they stopped before it, and the priestess nodded her head once.

  “So it is.”

  “You can see it?” Dean flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean… It’s just that I thought all priests and priestesses are born blind.”

  “Blind?” Dean was relieved to see that she seemed more amused than offended. “I suppose we are in a manner of speaking. But though we cannot see the world around us, our eyes are attuned to the spirit world and what lies beyond the veil. We wrap our faces to prevent that power from consuming us. We are close to the gods, but even we cannot gaze into the ether indefinitely.”

  “I see.”

  Dean stared down at the cup in his hands, feeling his nerves taking over. A hand touched his, and he looked up to see the priestess smiling once more.

  “Do not fear,” she said. “Though your spirit will transcend this world, your body will be protected here. We will care for you until such time as you are ready to return. Now, drink up.”

  For a moment, Dean stood there, his hands gripping the cup like it was a lifeline. There was no use in delaying it, he knew, and yet he couldn’t help but feel the bite of his nerves. An image played through his mind. One of Charlotte was sitting on a supply barrel, laughing as he wrestled with one of the other soldiers. Dean had been winning up until the point his boot slid on a wet patch of mud and he landed hard on his backside.”

  Charlotte clutched her stomach, her elven accent making her laugh sound like music.

  “When I said put your back into it, I didn’t mean like that!”

  The sound of her laughter echoed in his head, and Dean closed his eyes for just a moment. Charlotte. The only one who had believed in him back then. It was for her that he did this, but she wasn’t the only reason. He had made an oath to protect humanity, to put his life on the line to ignite his spark and use his power to change the catastrophic events of the future. More than his will, it was his duty. And more than his duty..

  “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked the Priestess as he gazed into the cup.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “I do.”

  Dean nodded once. Then, before he could stop himself, he raised the cup to his lips and downed the contents in a single gulp. The liquid was warm and strangely tasteless, leaving only a soft floral tang on his tongue after the fact. The warmth hit his stomach and seemed to spread, and Dean blinked as the rushing feeling reached his chest.

  “Very good. Now, listen to the drum beats. You will have only a few minutes before your soul ascends to the second realm. Take this stick of incense, and light it when you reach the shrine of the god you wish to commune with. Say a prayer to them, and if they are so inclined, they will answer you.”

  She handed Dean the stick of incense, which he took in both hands. Then she stepped back, gesturing towards the doors.

  “Good luck.” She said. No sooner had she finished speaking than the doors slid open with a creak. The inside of the temple was dark, lit only by nine small flames at each of the shrines. The shrines of the nine gods. From within the depths of the temple, a steady drum began to boom.

  Dean stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the grass mats of the floor. On either side of the wall were shrines, each one unique to the god it represented. Pillars of wood stood to each side and on it were carved the gods' greatest quotes and deeds. Dean examined each one, his heart thudding as the drink in his stomach seemed to ripple. He could feel the heat spreading through his body, through his very veins.

  He passed the shrine of Valnir, then of Nephine. At Hanzo’s shrine, he paused. Hanzo was a good option, as he valued both patience and martial competence. And yet, Dean knew that the God of patient victory was less inclined towards the steady violence of war, and that was a path he knew he’d have to walk. So Dean continued down the line. He passed the shrine of Aven and slowed again as he came to Jorn’s. The God of strength might answer his call, especially given Dean’s values. But if he wanted to achieve his goals, he would need more than brute might to win his fights. The Spear Saint couldn’t be killed with strength alone.

  Deep down, Dean knew the choice he had been leaning towards. It was strange, unorthodox even. And yet somewhere deep down, he felt that despite the gamble, it was right for him. The drum’s beats grew faster, and Dean’s heart seemed to match the rhythm as he walked. He strode past the shrines of the Seven gods and towards the back of the temple to the small alcove devoted to visitors of other nations.

  The shrines here were small, and the candles burned low. The visitors' shrines were more of a formality than anything – a place where traveling dwarves or elves could pray to their own gods when traveling within the empire itself. His eyes scanned the shrines until he found what he was looking for. An image of an elven goddess, sitting on a throne of pure midnight. The same as it had been on the stained-glass window he’d seen only weeks before.

  With steady hands, he lowered his stick of incense until the tip caught. Then he placed the unlit end in the sand before the shrine of the goddess. His heart was hammering so hard that he almost forgot he was supposed to say a prayer.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know how to pray. I’ve never done it before. But Goddess, hear me now as I call to you. I know that as a human, I am not one of your kind. But of all the blessings in this temple, it is yours that I seek the most. You are the Goddess of the moonlight and of the wild hunt. Though your power is more subtle, it is without end. I seek an audience with you, as I believe you are the only one who can understand my plight.”

  Seconds passed as the drums rose to a crescendo. Dean stood before the shrine, unsure of what to do. His vision was swaying, and he blinked, trying to clear the cloud looming towards him. Was it the drink? Was this the effect of what he had taken? He couldn’t be sure.

  All he knew was that the goddess on the other end of the shrine remained silent. The world seemed to swirl around him, and Dean stumbled, catching himself on the lip of the shrine. Before him, the carved face of the goddess seemed to swim and his head started to spin.

  “What’s happening to me?” he said, but the words came out slurred. Dean hit his knees in a rattle of armor as the world began to bleed away from him. Then an invisible iron grip clamped around his neck, as a voice snarled in his ear:

  “You dare to call upon me, human?”