Not so far away in the Capital’s Core, Afia prepares to leave her post as Holy Imanjar. Turning in one’s resignation letter is certainly a momentous task when your superior is a Goddess.

  Renouncing your service can very well be taken as an act of treason against the Holy Imanjar and a sign of contempt for the Goddess. Basically, if you value your life, you just don’t do it. Why would you? No other respectable Deity would take you, for who wants a fair weather follower?

  Luckily, Afia most certainly does not want to go into the service of any other Diety. As for the matter of valuing her life, her service most certainly would result in her death coming more swiftly than it would otherwise. At this moment, she wishes just to wash her hands of the whole matter.

  Expining her resignation to the Goddess will be a delicate task requiring much tact and groveling. After all, she cannot simply say “Hello! I served you when I could get benefit from it. Now that the going gets tough, tootle-loo!”

  Afia winces in guilt. Putting in that way makes her feel as if she took advantage of some pitiful creature.

  No. She steels herself. The Goddess feeds on the actions of her followers and becomes stronger due to her increased relevance. If one lesser Holy Imanjar made a difference to the Goddess, there wouldn’t be lesser Holy Imanjar in the first pce, just Holy Imanjar. There is no need to be fodder for the monsters to come.

  She slowly pushes the doors open to the main Worship Chamber of the Temple of Victory. A liquid, golden statue of a Goddess stands in the middle of the circur, vaulted treasure room.

  The floor is golden and marbled, spiraling out in waves from the Goddess’s visage. While solid underfoot, the pattern continuously swirls and ripples, reacting the footsteps of intruding life forms.

  A small, sluggish whirlpool can be seen at the far edge of the chamber, where Vaza ys prostrated before Her. His eyes are closed and his breathe almost undetectable. He is more still than the very statue he worships.

  Afia walks forward, her anxiety growing as the golden magma climbs to outlines of her footsteps. It seems to urge her to go faster, approaching each spot she steps with increasing velocity until the tip of her foot has not left the ground before it is licking the outline of her heel.

  She cannot understand how Vaza could seem so at ease in a pce like this. Perhaps if she mimicked his example, it would be better? She throws herself to the floor, nearly tripping in her haste. Her forehead hits the golden floor. It is warm and comforting.

  Remembering her mission, Afia shivers. The comfort seems to be manacles binding her, making her compcent.

  No. She will leave.

  “Goddess of Victory, I thank you for allowing a humble being such as myself to serve your personage. I am grateful for your aid, but find that I must return the call to the homend of my father’s father.”

  A drop of sweat runs down Afia’s face and onto the floor. Her tunic lies ft against her cold, wet back.

  “The flesh is inherited from the Mother, the spirit from the Father. I cannot deny the call of both that lies across the sea in a nd of tall grass pins.”

  The floor grows colder, the magma flowing away from Afia’s trembling body.

  “I will bear the consequence of my actions and beat the rebound of my wish. In my selfishness, I ask only that you look upon my erroneous parting with magnanimity.”

  The warmth suddenly pulls away, taking with it her body heat. Afia opens her eyes and pulls her head up with a violent jerk.

  The area around her body has grown bck and still. From her position lies a path of bck leading to the doors from which she came.

  Stumbling to her feet, Afia dashes down this path. Proper decorum would demand a slow, respectful gait belonging to a sinner leaving the light. Bounding down the stairs of the Temple, Afia instead resembles the rabbit fleeing the fox.

  Nothing could persuade her to stay even a moment longer. She will leave.

  The Goddess of Victory is indeed a fear-inducing personage to mere humans. Cold, golden eyes watch on forever, through cloth and body, seeing the soul and intent.

  Her liquid armor does little to conceal vital points, instead becoming intricate jewelry. She has no need for true protection. She has no fear for these creatures, nor should she.

  She is the hunter leading the dogs on the chase. No rabbit nor fox could but die under her attention.

  As Afia’s st strand of hair crosses the Temple’s boundary, she colpses. Moaning, she tries to drag herself upright.

  Hot.

  Cold.

  Can’t breathe.

  Can’t see.

  Tears.

  Hot.

  Cold.

  Panting.

  Sick.

  She is sick.

  A weak smile appears on Afia’s face as she stumbles drunkenly down the thoroughfare.

  She had wished to the Goddess for Health and Happiness for her and her family. Now, she must fight for victory over illness and misfortune herself.

  The Goddess had let her go.

  The Hunter has no need of every rabbit in the forest. Satisfied with those within her grasp, she turns a blind eye to the fleeing form before her.

  However, the hounds must still pay.

  Vaza slowly opens his eyes. He too has a pulsing headache. Sweat drips from his forehead as his hands shake.

  He had not controlled the lesser Holy Imanjar. How could he have let Her be bothered by such an annoying thing?

  He must remember his pce.

  Returning to his office, he reflects on what he might have done better. Should he have stayed and listened to the lesser Holy Imanjar’s compints? It was his own fault— he shouldn’t have fled Austran’s blustering talks.

  He colpses into his office’s chair, gasping for breath. His robes seem too tight, the air too stagnant. He opens his eyes and recoils in fear.

  For the fsh of a beautiful woman had appeared in one of his many mirrors.

  He must be better.

  He must serve the Goddess.

  He must make no mistakes.

  His wish is at risk.