4750
The First Age

Midnight darkened the corridors of the Temple. Few of the remaining lights let out a gentle hum; most flickered, deteriorating with age. Torches bridged the gap where some had failed completely, soot staining the once-pristine white walls. A fitting change.

Estela pressed her back against the wall of an alcove, hidden in shadows, and held her breath. Waiting. Waiting for the Watch to walk by, to pass her by unnoticed—if any prayer she whispered in the dead of night had any meaning, reached any divine ears that could still hear….

Sooner than she had dared to hope, her wish came to pass—a priestess, already Dedicated, passed her hiding spot, robes black as night swishing on the stone floor as she went. They were all black as night.

This priestess must not have been in direct contact with the Goddess, or she certainly would have noticed Estela where she hid.

Estela waited, straining her ears until the footsteps were gone, around a corner down the hall. She darted out from her alcove, running on whisper-soft feet to her destination: the center of the Temple. The holiest of holies, where only those ready for Dedication to Umbra could go.

Nevermind if they’d been Called or not.

The holy center of the Temple was empty. Here were no ancient, flickering lights left to them by the first Sisters in this land; the flames of candles and torches flickered, reflections dancing on the offering stone, a red so dark it was black; the colour of old clots. She’d read in a history book the stone used to be multicoloured, millennia ago.

Worship of Umbra had darkened it.

Estela could taste her heartbeat as she approached the altar, throbbing in her throat as if the organ would make its escape any moment now.

The altar had been dedicated to the worship of Umbra as long as Estela had been alive. Truly, it was not suitable for anything else, and she knew this. Umbra was the only Goddess honoured in Athering. She knew this as well.

One cannot control her dreams, she thought, shaking fingers gripping the hilt of the sacrificial knife. And I have been Called to another’s service.

The flames cast enough light for her to see her reflection in the knife’s blade. She looked young and terrified.

Truth. She knew what would happen if they caught her. When they caught her.

But when the Goddesses Called, one answered.

She held her hand over the altar and pressed the sharp blade against her flesh, gritting her teeth against the pain as she sliced. Blood welled forth then spilled freely, flowing over the smooth stone.

She closed her eyes against the sight and found her voice, shaking and cowering somewhere inside her chest. “Great Kore, Goddess of Light and Prophecy. You have Called me, and I answer with a joyous heart. I Dedicate my life, my soul, and my blood to You. I pray I am found worthy.”

Her words echoed in the quiet room, reverberating in her skull. She’d done it. Would the Goddess answer?

A low, throaty laugh came in response to her unspoken question, Estela felt her heart sink—though she knew she’d be foolish to harbour any hope of escape. She turned slowly, unwilling to show the panic that seized her, creeping up her body, screaming in her head to run, run, RUN, you fool!

There was no more running. Not tonight. Not ever.

At the entrance to the room stood the Mother Superior, Maga Domina, and several High Priestesses. All full servants of Umbra.

Estela swallowed, feeling shards of glass go down her throat. Her only hope now was that Kore had accepted her offering. That, at least, would save her from the worst afterlife imaginable.

The Mother Superior stepped forward slowly, all the time in the world to dole out punishment. “Hm. Estela,” she drawled, a cruel smile on her beautiful face. “Somehow I always knew you would be one to betray the Order.”

“You’ve no right to be the Order anymore, Beralyn.” Estela was shocked her voice didn’t tremble as much as her legs. “We turned away from Aradia long ago.”

Beralyn laughed again, a sound of bells calling citizens to the execution square. “And you think you’ll change that, by Dedicating to a long-dead Goddess?”

Estela found the courage to square her shoulders. She untied the stays to her cloak, let the black fabric drop to the ground at her feet, and stood proudly in her brightly-coloured peplos—orange and yellow and red, colours of the sun and forbidden in Athering. It had cost Estela everything to keep it safe and hidden for as long as she had.

“Kore’s not dead,” she said, her words falling like stone in the room.

Beralyn scoffed and glared at Estela’s peplos, offended by the sudden appearance of life in a room dedicated to death. “You think Kore lives on in your stupid little books? Oh, I know,” she added when Estela could not keep her shock hidden. “I know about your trips to the forbidden section deep within the castle library. I know about your fascination with a time that’s long forgotten—as well it should be.”

She made a signal with her hand and the High Priestesses came forward. Estela didn’t try to run. The priestesses gripped her upper arms roughly, pushed her down until her knees hit cold stone.

Beralyn sneered down at her. “You’ll be forgotten, too, little girl.”

“No,” Estela whispered. “I won’t. Not by you.”

A bright light had sparked to life in Estela’s chest; now it grew until it occluded all else, expanding her beyond the limitations of her mortal flesh, beyond the fear and the panic. A miniature sun blazed in her heart and she was at peace—whatever else, she knew now without a doubt that Kore had answered her.

When her lips moved again the words came from somewhere other than Estela; though they traveled through the air on her voice, they were not hers. She was a vessel for all that light and it spilled forth, a blinding, kindling flame.

“When the Dark One rules, all falls to ruin in this world and the other. Her Chosen takes the Sceptre, and righteousness is forgotten. But another shall rise—a Chosen of Kore, of the Line of Aradia—a child of Light to balance the Dark. And thus shall the Dark One’s rule fall, and thus shall righteousness take the Sceptre again, and thus shall the Light rule again.”

Beralyn’s smile was just as cruel as before, but now it was tinged with a hint of doubt. “I hope you weren’t referring to the Queen’s firstborn. That girl’s already been sacrificed, just this morn.”

Any other time, Estela would have felt sick to her stomach, but she was only half in her body now. She smiled in return. “The time is coming,” she said, and knew the words to be her last.

Beralyn snapped her fingers; the Maga Domina brought forth an axe, and then Estela’s head was bent forward, her hair moved to the side.

A sharp pain, the beating rush of air, the feathery presence of wings, the warm embrace of darkness.

Estela was no more.

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