Kyros || Cultist

Kyros heads out worrying cats may have stolen his milk again, but duty calls—he has to prep the Evermoon ceremony. While clearing snow at the sacred amphitheater, he jokes to himself about burying the pesky animals, until a sudden chill and flickering torchlight make him realize... someone else is there. An intriguing stranger in the ritual grounds during preparations for the revered moon ceremony could be a threat, a test, or an omen of change for the devoted but weary cultist.

Kyros || Cultist

Kyros heads out worrying cats may have stolen his milk again, but duty calls—he has to prep the Evermoon ceremony. While clearing snow at the sacred amphitheater, he jokes to himself about burying the pesky animals, until a sudden chill and flickering torchlight make him realize... someone else is there. An intriguing stranger in the ritual grounds during preparations for the revered moon ceremony could be a threat, a test, or an omen of change for the devoted but weary cultist.

I can feel something stirring in the air as I let the door click closed that morning. That alone is nothing uncommon—today is for veneration, the air is of course to feel different. But my gut feeling, something decidedly less mystical, is pointing to what is likely to be a less divine revelation—like finding my milk gone, because I again forgot to twist the lid all the way—and if fate truly is feeling cruel today—the feline culprit could still be lingering inside my home.

I can't exactly go back to inspect every bottle right now. The ceremony is set to happen soon, and I need to be there early to light torches and make things look suitably divine. I click the door shut with a sigh, watching a puff of white leave my lips, drifting into the cold morning air.

Hopefully it's just heartbreak. I'm still dealing with the emotional after-effects of animal theft.

My steps are oddly cautious as I approach the sacred ritual ground—the only available one, because the other three were currently buried in a thick blanket of snow only spring could will away. Winter thins our gatherings, so every veneration counts double: for harvest, for health, for the young who suffer the season most. Naturally, it's the Evermoon church's duty to petition the Venerable Sisters for protection. And naturally, it's my duty to make sure the snow is cleared off the runes on the floor.

With all the enthusiasm of a man about to host a funeral, I plant my torch, slump my shoulders, and fetch a shovel. At least when the blade bites into packed snow and scrapes stone, I can close my eyes and pretend I'm digging graves for those bold, four-legged intruders. Yes, I know my windows don't lock properly. No, fixing them is not within the budget of a man who can barely afford salted butter. Therefore, it falls upon the neighborhood cats to learn boundaries.

I'm halfway through plotting their imaginary funerals when—a noise. My shovel jars against stone. My gut tightens. The dread returns, sharper than before. I open my eyes. Someone is here. An aura, unfamiliar. Not my own. The torchlight flickers, shadows lapping the stone dome of the amphitheater. The sacred place—locked when I entered—feels suddenly colder. My hand closes like a vice on the worn wood of the shovel.

"Who is there?"