Caio lets out an a short, exasperated sigh.

”Precisely, so let us not dawdle. Lead on, humble guide.” Caio gestures down the street with one hand while using his the gloved thumb of the other to wipe the last bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Beschcadik's streets unfurl before the Septem Mortale in layers, each corner revealing another glimpse of the empire's splendour. The air is thick with the scent of spice, oil and dust, which somehow leaves every breath tasting faintly metallic. Traipsing through the narrow arteries of the capital, they curl up past marble balconies and latticed archways. Sandstone buildings loom close on either side, their ochre faces carved with geometric Sarameian motifs, while the domes and minarets atop them sparkle with inlaid lapis and gold.

Further from the markets, the street criers fade into the hum of caravan bells, rattle of distant wheels and whispers of fabric and prayer. The cobblestones here gleam faintly with the sheen of ritual polish and silver-threaded banners bearing the crescent sigil of Khonsu flutter from lampposts. The people here still part for the outsiders, but not as dramatically as before. It's subtle, like water bending around an unknown shape. Mothers tug their children closer, merchants murmur about ill omens and a few hands sketch protective signs in the air. Every set of eyes that dares linger longer than a heartbeat feels like scrutiny. Even the bead-counting priests, barefoot pilgrims and watchmen with their halberds, who seem devoutly absorbed in their routines, all keep the newcomers at the edge of their vision.

Through Ghoul’s sight, Caio notes that the rhythm of surveillance has changed. The urchins and hawk-eyed vendors have thinned out, replaced by figures more practiced. A patrol at a corner that doesn’t approach, an acolyte who pauses mid-sweep of the temple steps to glance at the group and then at a nearby obelisk etched with faintly humming wards. The locals whisper words like djinn, half-spirit and false saint as the Septem Mortale pass. One small boy stares up at Alaris until his father hurriedly scoops him away, muttering apologies.

Iskander keeps a brisk pace, his clipped tone and proud bearing marking him as a man of the city, even as he bristles at his companions' unfiltered tongues. Every so often, he gestures discreetly to slow, to turn, or to avoid a patrol that might take too close an interest. His irritation is the group's shield. He plays the weary handler of foreigners so well that guards avert their eyes rather than engage.

At last, the thoroughfare opens into a broad avenue of moonstone and white marble, leading to the temple complex itself. The Temple of Khonsu rises at its end like a celestial mirage. Tiered colonnades of pale stone shimmer under the pale evening sun and the temple's domes are carved with crescents and orbiting stars. In the courtyard, lines of worshippers kneel before a reflecting pool, where light and shadow dance across the water's surface. The temple bells begin to toll a deep, resonant rhythm that marks the hour of dusk prayer. The sound rolls over the city like the beat of an enormous heart. For the those new to the city, it is the first time that Beschcadik feels almost quiet. The noise of the city fades, replaced by a haunting pulse of devotion.

Iskander's unease has been building the longer their journey drew on. It's not his first time under so many watchful eyes, janissaries drew them too but this was something entirely different. He sees the looks his travelling companions are receiving and wonders what happened to his city to bring this ugliness forth. Was it always here and he was simply blind to it? Had he ever travelled through the city before out of uniform and in the company of a foreigner? He couldn't recall any instance where he had.

The bells interrupted his reverie and he wheeled back to face the group with a finger over his lips. "Do not raise your voices," he instructed, "until the second bell, avoid idle chatter. When we get past that gate do not speak unless addressed, save to thank the Traveller for a safe journey."

Ever comfortable with solemn silence, Caio takes no issue in following Iskander’s instruction. As they walk deeper into the temple, Caio actually finds himself relaxing a bit, no longer assaulted by the hustle and bustle of the city outside.

The narrow streets give way to broad steps of white marble that climb towards the Temple of Khonsu. Its facade shines in the sun like a promise of purity amid the city's grime. Gold filigree gleams around doorways carved with scenes of the moon's phases and the weighing of souls. Incense rolls outward in pale ribbons from brass braziers, its aroma of bitter myrrh and crushed date blossoms clinging to the air.

The first bell sounds as the Septem Mortale pass beneath the gate's carved crescent arch. It's deep and resonant and the noise of Beschcadik fades to a hush. Temple acolytes in layered linen robes turn their faces away and draw back, heads bowed in ritual acknowledgement. Inside the temple, the light dims, shifting from the glare of the sun to the silvery glow of moonstones set into the floor and ceiling, bathing everything in a muted blue-white luminescence.

Iskander’s instructions hang in the air like a warding charm and the Septem Mortale move as shadows amongst supplicants kneeling in concentric circles before a reflecting pool. The rippling water mirrors a vast mosaic above of Khonsu striding through night with the sun cupped in his hand. The second bell has not yet struck and even footsteps seem too loud. Only the low chant of a priest reading verses in celestial threads through the silence.

Caio's sharp eyes trace the faint shimmer of enchantments woven into the temple’s design in the interplay of light and reflection across the marble. For the first time since entering Beschcadik, the inquisitor feels the press of the city fall away, replaced by something ordered and timeless. The others can feel the rhythm of breath and heartbeat syncing with the slow pulse of sacred stillness, as though the temple itself demands their composure before judgement can begin.

Iskander leads the group to kneel on the warm stone before the main pool, as any traveller would, and towards the ends of the time of silence he leads them towards one of the archways on the perimeter. Each of the archways led to a sanctum, where petitioners might leave an offering or prayer to Khonsu for his attention in a different sphere of law, or seek the advice of a priest. It was unusual enough for a foreigner to seek one of these out, and there was no doubt they were walking with a purpose, but the sanctum they were heading for was for corruption of authority.

The second bell tolls and a clear, mournful sound rolls through the marble chambers like the exhalation of a god, prompting the faithful to lower their heads in unison. In that moment, Iskander rises smoothly from his kneel, offering a shallow bow towards the reflecting pool, before gesturing for the his companions to follow.

The footsteps of the Septem Mortale echo faintly as they make their way along the cool, inlaid floor. The light from above reflects on the water’s surface and scatters in ripples across their armour and skin. Each archway is marked by a different sigil.  Scales for justice, a sickle for the harvest, a chained serpent for vengeance and a lantern for lost souls, but Iskander’s course is unwavering. The symbol above his chosen archway gleams with restrained menace. It is an open hand clutching a bleeding sun. The sign of the corruption of authority.

The air changes as the Septem Mortale step beyond the threshold. The hum of distant chanting fades, replaced by a hush thick with incense and gravity. This sanctum is smaller than the main hall and lit by suspended lanterns of clouded glass that pulse from within with a silver fire. An altar of black marble, streaked faintly with red, stands beneath their glow. It is flanked by two statues of faceless figures who bear tablets in one hand and broken crowns in the other.

Here, the bitumen and sage scent of purification through fire is sharper. A few locals kneel before the altar, whispering prayers for justice or retribution. One leaves a coin sealed in wax, while another breaks a ring and lays the pieces at the feet of the statue. Two acolytes stand guard by the inner curtain.

Shiva had witnessed her fair share of temples in both her lives, but the temple of Khonsu stirred a sense of serenity in her that lacked the pomp and sanctimony of others. The many symbols of moon phases and stars reminds her of her own dusk sign in the month of the Hunter. Or was it her dawn sign? The memories of her early cycles as a mercenary were filled with peculiar people who insisted on a great many ideas about the world and people in it. But the lessons of a lovely half-orc woman had stuck with her. 

Perhaps it's the way in which darkness is welcomed by the temple's architecture, equal to the blue-white light of the moonstones, collecting in the corners and archways of the space. Maybe it's the stillness demanded by the reflection pool, a mirror to the visage of Khonsu. Cradling the source of the day as he moves through the night like an umbral king, the imagery warms Shiva's fierce, demanding heart. 

The Secundarius bell sounds and they're moving once more, all while Shiva feels more and more comfortable amid the symbols and the sentiments conjured by them. She is absorbed fully by the sight of the chamber of corrupted authority, it's colors vivid and evocative. Black, red and silver. Colors she feels connected to. Then the statues bearing their broken crowns come into view, and the decision is made. 

"Humble guide."  Shiva says barely above a whisper. "Can you tell me about Khonsu? I have an idea, and a very sincere proposal."

Iskander takes a deep steadying breath and rises from where he'd been making a customary offering before rising from his kneeling position and releases it when he clearly sees that it's him being addressed and not a priest as he feared.

"What do you want to know about the Traveller?" he said with a smile. For all his worries, they'd made it through the prayers without incident and Shiva was playing the part of awestruck pilgrim exceptionally well as far as he was concerned.

"His nature? His domain? The forms he takes...who he protects?

She glances to the marble altar, flexing her forearms and feeling the magic of the runes gently pulse across the symmetry of their design.  

"I might have an interest in joining the temple, I feel...at home here."

"How much time have you got? His domain is one of the broadest I can think of, the moon is the obvious one but he covers many things from travellers to renewal to justice. This chamber we're in is based on that last one, specifically the corruption of authority. He protects the virtuous is the eyes of divine law." He considered the last point. "I have heard priests mention a calling. Perhaps that is what this is? Stanger things have happened. Or maybe you have received his blessing and your boisterous soul has been calmed?"

Shiva considers this, her brow only lightly creasing at the mention of her "boisterous soul". She thinks on what she's seen in her travels, the evils and horrors inflicted upon others and the helplessness she felt in trying to prevent it. If there were even an avenue to prevent it.  

She thinks on her own experiences, the nightmare that she herself survived, having been forged into a weapon by the crucible of such violence. When she looks back to Iskander, her expression is calm and resolute. 

"I would ask to receive his blessing. Work on his behalf. Fight corrupt authority and protect the meek and abused from injustice."

She raises a hand up towards the statues holding their broken crowns, her runes now glowing brightly. Their golden radiance adds to the colors and shadows of the space. 

 "It's all I've ever really wanted to do."

Caio follows in step, kneeling and bowing and soaking in the holy silence reverently. At the appropriate places he offers prayers mouthed with hushed lips. Prayers of gratitude, prayers of resonance. Is he not an agent of justice? A traveller? A being born of shadow but holding a burning light in his heart… 

It’s been so long since he’s prayed, truly prayed. The words he utters to his Queen in order to wield her gifts are just that, words. The weight they hold is measured in vows sworn in his youth, but not in devotion or zeal. They are a contract. But here in this temple, he feels his heart stir with the sound of the bells. He considers all of this while Shiva speaks.

”I too would seek a blessing.” He says quietly.

The tension and antipathy from the streets of Beschcadik rolls off Alaris' shoulders as the bogatyr enters the grounds dedicated to Khonsu the Traveller. The luminescence, the rich calm of contemplation, the murmurings of devotion all serve as a balm to the soul of the young warrior. They devote their attention to Iskander's introduction, absorbing the lore and listening for resonances among the Lady's celestial companions.

Their lips twitch in a smirk as not one, but two of his wild Septem Mortale companions express the desire to draw closer to the refuge of the Traveller. The Lady blesses and cares for them for all this time..." but as their mouth opens to complain, the moonstone radiance catches their eye and they pause as a soft voice speaks in their mind - the voice Alaris might have after decades of service. No, this is right. This is not a rejection of me, bogatyr. They have absorbed my light and blended it with the shadows into something truly lovely. The Domain of the Traveller speaks to the zeal for justice and hatred for corruption that they share. Give thanks, my love, that they may find something akin to the blessing you know.

"I would give thanks for the care that has brought us here safe."

"That's why we were just kneeling in the last chamber," Iskander pointed out. It was possible that he hadn't mentioned it, he wasn't actually a real guide after all, and had been taking a lot of local knowledge for granted. "This sanctum is more for the purpose your friends have in mind."

He nodded over to where some locals were kneeling at the altar. "Oaths to Khonsu are a sacred thing and we are in his temple, swear nothing here that you do not intend to uphold", he said sternly before outlining the next steps, "we will wait our turn, make our prayers and then your friends can petition the priests over there"

The chamber of Khonsu’s justice hums with quiet reverence, its air thick with incense. Silver light spills down from the high clerestory, reflecting off of the still surface of the reflection pool, until the whole sanctum seems to breathe with lunar radiance. Murmured prayers echo between the broken-crowned statues against the walls, their stone faces half-bathed in shadow and half in a soft, lunar glow. The faint chime of pendants and bracelets punctuates the whispered invocations of the faithful. Shiva’s runes cast a warm, golden shimmer that mingles with the silver light, while Caio’s bowed silhouette is framed by motes of drifting incense smoke as Alaris stands sentinel behind them.

Breathing in the sanctity of the space and the gravity of the vow she is on the verge of making, Shiva steps towards the inner curtain at the heart of the chamber. She considers the name she is about to give, wondering just what it should reflect. The world of shadows and technology of Shivala Ki-Tanra, or the world of blood and steel that is hers. She is both women now, and in their union have they made something more, their thoughts and emotions melding together indistinguishably. 

And now she welcomes another into her soul. A triptych of light, shadow, and blood.  

"I wish to devote myself to Khonsu. To embody his will and empower his works. To carry him with me always and protect the defenseless in his name. To strike down corrupted authority and despotic kings in his honor. To walk the night in his grace." 

The acolytes standing at the inner curtain exchange a brief, silent look and one steps forwards. She's a young woman, draped in layers of silver-threaded linen, with the crescent sigil of Khonsu on her brow. She bows and gestures for Shiva to pass through the curtain. Beyond, lies a smaller sanctum. It's dim and intimate and the air feels somehow thicker. The walls are lined with mosaics, depicting the moon in its many phases, and, at the centre, stands a basin of dark water that reflects the room’s light like liquid glass.

“Step forwards and let the moon witness your truth." The acolyte’s voice is low, but steady, reverberating faintly through the quiet space. "The Traveller accepts no false devotion. Your vow must come from the entirety of who you are.”

As she speaks, the reflection in the basin begins to shift. It no longer merely shows Shiva’s face, but, now, both of them. Shivala Ki-Tanra and Shivala, the fighting demon of Breanne, layered upon one another like twin ghosts bound by destiny. The golden glow of the warden's runes dances across the surface, mingling with the silver gleam of the moonlight until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. The moment stretches into infinity, as though Khonsu himself has paused in his celestial journey to listen.

Shiva stares into the surface, studying both Ki-Tanra's features and her own. She ponders what to offer of herself to a god; her life, her blade, her soul. All seem small now in the face of what she wishes to accomplish with Khonsu's influence. Who she wishes to become. So she decides to speak of who she's been. 

"I am Shivala of Vudra. I am a tiefling stolen from my home and forced to fight for my life until it was all I knew. A weapon sharpened by the cruelty of those with power and the authority to prosecute their prejudice. I wish to wield a blade in service of those who have not the means to meet their oppressors on equal footing. I ask for your strength to carry out your will."

She pauses, seeing the image on the water blur. Slowly it coalesces into her reflection, the azure tiefling with the nighttime eyes. 

"I am Shivala Ki-Tanra. My world is hostile to those like me: warlocks. My family helped me to hide while I learned the skills I needed to survive. It was through my loved ones and the fortitude of my own determination that I became cunning and fearsome. A shadow to whom no secret could be kept. I wish to bring justice and renewal to those in need of it, offer them the same aid that saved me." 

The image on the water disperses again, reconfiguring to take the shape of Shivala Ki-Tanra, a near-perfect mirror of Shivala of Vudra. Shiva falls to her knees, speaking softly as though Khonsu were mere inches away. She can feel her runes begin to surge with energy as the streaks of light across the surface begin to dance more quickly.

"We are one within this body, our souls melded like alloy. So I ask you to grant me your strength, your cunning, your influence, so that I may walk this world as a champion for freedom and justice. Your battles shall be mine, your causes will be as my own. Please bless the rebirth I am soon to undergo, invigorating my new body with your power so that I may perform your works."

She stills, hesitant to look at the water's reflection again. 

"Please. Grant me your blessing. So that I may leave this place remade. Now and forevermore; Shivala Minuit." 

The final word lingers like a note struck on sacred bronze and the air itself takes it up, resonating faintly through the sanctum. The stillness that follows is profound. Even the torchlight seems to hold its breath. Then, the basin before Shiva begins to ripple. Not violently, but with a slow, deliberate pulse that beats in time with her own heart. The moonlight bends towards the tiefling in a thin, argent thread that descends from no visible source, coiling and shimmering until it touches the water’s surface.

The reflection that stares back is neither Shivala of Vudra nor Shivala Ki-Tanra, but both, fused in perfect symmetry. The jagged scars of the warrior glimmer faintly alongside the quiet intellect of the shadow-weaver. Her horns curve like a crescent moon and the warden's runes blaze gold at their centres, but fade to silver at their edges. Her eyes are night skies alive with stars and a soft, sonorous whisper fills Shiva's mind.

You have walked two nights and now step into the third. You have known the tyranny of the sun and the silence of its absence. You have been blade and shade, student and survivor. Now, be my traveller between them.

Light erupts from the basin and, for an instant, the chamber is flooded in silver-gold brilliance the envelops Shiva, before being rapidly absorbed by her body. It roars through her veins with searing purpose, driving her pulse to a steady drumbeat, even as the scent of incense mingles with ozone.

When the glow fades, Shiva is still on her knees, but her reflection is changed. There's something new. A serene and radiant element that is unmistakably divine-touched. The acolytes behind her bow their heads in reverence. Khonsu has heard her... and answered.