While heat and frost from a hundred stares pooled on Shelika, her mind slipped like a moth toward the temple’s glass-lit displays.

Even on a cliff’s edge of danger, her focus clung elsewhere—she wondered where the God of Wine’s tribute hid, a single golden beacon in all this red.

To raise True Crimson Whirl into a divine weapon, she had promised the God of Wine a bottle drawn from the Crimson Temple, a favor sealed like ink on silk.

But the temple brimmed with tribute wine, a sea of reds and ambers; not any bottle would do—only the one his desire circled like a hawk.

He’d shown her a picture: a pale-gold body, filigree curling like vines in morning frost, the kind of beauty that whispered expense.

So she believed it would stand out on the display stands like a sun among moons, easy to spot, easy to claim.

Her gaze swept the corridor stalls like a falcon’s wing, but the bottle hid in shadow; nothing gleamed the way it should.

Regret pricked her like cold rain; if the tribute wasn’t on the stands, it was either locked away or enshrined before the Blood Goddess Margaret’s statue.

At that thought, trouble thickened like dusk fog, and her mood dipped, a pebble sinking in a still pond.

She steadied herself a breath later; resolve rose like a reed in wind—there were still six days left.

Handle Cerise tonight, then hunt the bottle; the God of Wine gave seven days, one gone, six bright candles still burning for her.

Cerise walked ahead like a cat with eyes on her back. Her quiet painted lips curved. “Heh heh heh~~~ What are you staring at? Are temple trinkets worth your heart?”

The sudden jab bit like a thorn. Shelika had a reply ready, cool as snow. “With all this money gilding the temple, better save it; the other elder clans would thank you.”

“Heh heh heh~~~ Shelika, your irreverence hasn’t thawed in sixty years. Ever consider how many in our Dark Blood Clan live under the Progenitor’s power?”

Margaret, Progenitor and true ancestor of the Dark Blood Clan—her soul rose like dawn after death, ascended to godhood, holding longevity and strength in her hands.

Her theurgy stirs bloodlines like spring over roots, so worship follows her like rivers to the sea, believers countless as stars.

Shelika’s voice stayed calm, lantern-bright. “I’ve never slighted the Progenitor. I just call things as they are. When a problem stands here and now, isn’t leaning on the gods a little strange?”

Cerise’s tone stayed mild, a veil over steel. “Heh heh heh~~~ Our elders chase one thing—longevity. Blood-sipped life has limits; to remain, we must lean on the Progenitor’s power~~~”

Talking carried them through the shop-lined corridor into the temple’s main body, a wide space like a breath held—the Grand Sanctum.

Offerings crowded the Sanctum like reefs in a red sea, and because Margaret loves blood above all, even with windows open, the air curled thick and copper-sweet.

To ordinary folk it stung like rust in the nose, a sting that scratches the sinuses raw.

But to the Blood Clan, it was a bouquet, dark wine on the tongue; breathing alone drew micro-sips of blood, a scent that tipsy-whispered, stay.

Shelika hadn’t breathed this in for a long time; it didn’t hurt, but it sat unfamiliar, like a cup too strong.

A wine-soft haze drifted over her—then thinned, a cloud burned off by sun.

If the haze had clung, she might have dropped like a felled poppy; helplessness would bruise her pride like a boot on a petal.

They walked to the Sanctum’s heart, before Margaret’s statue and its deep red pool, a mirror of dusk.

Shelika looked up: the goddess’ face was pure as snowfall; her near-bare form stood over the crimson basin, holiness edged with eerie allure like moonlight on a blade.

Everyone but Shelika, Cerise included, stopped at the blood pool and knelt, one knee to the stone, devout as reeds in the wind.

Cerise, like a Holy Maiden lit from within, intoned, “Today, your servants offer you reverence.”

The others echoed, their voices braided like bells. “We offer our reverence to our Lord.”

At their words, sluices on both sides opened; thick blood surged in like a river at thaw, and the pool brimmed scarlet.

Then light fell from the statue like pale dawn, drawing the fresh red into the void; the pool sank back to half, a tide reversed.

Clearly, Margaret had begun her feast.

Shelika knew this ritual—sacred communion offered daily, duty stitched like thread through a priest’s life.

Soft red-gold motes drifted down on Cerise and her attendants, gilding faces, stirring vitality like wind through wheat.

Offer the communion, and Margaret grants longevity and strength, the two pillars of their house.

Passing lower clergy watched with envy, eyes bright as lamps in mist.

Soon Cerise and her line rose; she turned, cheeks flushed like ripe fruit, lips tilted in calm pride. “Well? Did you witness the Progenitor’s power?”

“Mm. I did.” Shelika answered plainly, honesty like clear water; the scene was miraculous to any outsider’s eye.

“Heh heh heh~~~ Since you’ve seen it, why not convert now, bask in the Progenitor’s grace~~~?”

Shelika’s reply was cool as shade. “For me, the Progenitor’s radiance sits too high to touch. I’ll pass on conversion.”

Cerise’s smile carried a quiet hook. “Heh heh heh~~~ Nearly forgot—you once received strength from the Earth Mother.”

They passed the statue and moved on, through the Sanctum’s back into another corridor, narrow as a throat.

At its end stood a door larger than any in the temple, its reliefs crisp as frost-carved lace.

Shelika felt a weight behind it, a breath not ordinary, like thunder muffled by snow.

Other clergy halted there, robes pooling like dark water.

Only Cerise stepped forward, hand on the handle; she turned the metal like a key in fate, and one wing of the door glided open.

She angled her body, face toward Shelika, smiling faint as smoke. “Come in~~~”

An invitation like a jar set for a clever fox; tension pricked Shelika’s skin like cold needles.

She didn’t show it; she moved with careful feet, a dancer over thin ice.

Together they entered the deepest chamber of the Crimson Temple, a room broad as a night lake, only a little smaller than the Sanctum.

It was empty at the center, but the four walls were alive with reliefs—Margaret’s myths carved fine as hair, gleaming in dim lamplight, the air hushed and sanctum-dark.

Shelika didn’t know every secret of the Crimson Temple, but it rang in her bones—this was the temple’s god-domain.

Cerise had brought her to a place where Cerise’s strength would bloom like a flower at noon.

If Cerise meant harm, this chamber was the perfect stage, shadows arranged like curtains.

But blades cut both ways; that truth sat in Shelika’s chest like a hidden knife.

She let her voice carry, clear as a bell. “Cerise, if it’s only talk, did you need to bring me to a place like this?”

Cerise didn’t answer at once; she walked on, drawing a starlit gap between them, then turned.

“Heh heh heh~~~ Don’t you want to know why I want your bonded ward?”

“Why?” Shelika asked, straight as an arrow, then guessed, “You need Charlotte’s ability?”

“Spot on~~~ You’ve been to the front, right? Then you’ve seen those damned White Spirits’ new weapons?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Then I’ll speak plain.” Cerise’s playful tone dropped like a mask; her voice settled serious. “Listen. I’m a priestess of the Crimson Temple, and a lead mage in the Hymn Guard Mage Corps.”

“I command the Fourth Squad—every one of them Blood Clan mages,” she added, steady as a drumbeat.

Shelika’s shoulders loosened a hair, relief like a small exhale, but confusion still stood like fog. “So what does that have to do with Charlotte?”

“First—our Hymn Guard protects the Master who commands the Wasteland Deity,” Cerise said, words placed like stones.

A Wasteland Deity doesn’t move on its own; a medium must commune with the spirit inside, steering its steps like reins on a storm. That medium is the Master.

“The White Spirits know this. Once a Wasteland Deity enters the field, they pilot their profane iron men, break the fire-net, and fly straight for the Master—”

“But every member of our Hymn Guard will die to shield the Master; still—”

“There are exceptions… You understand me, dear Shelika?”

The feigned intimacy grated like grit in teeth, but Shelika knew the truth under the silk—that sometimes the Hymn Guard fails, and the Master falls.

She understood why Cerise couldn’t speak it plain; fallen before the mission succeeds, shame hangs like smoke.

“So you set your sights on Charlotte’s spirit-communion,” Shelika said, her own reading like a lantern’s beam, “ready to use her as a backup?”

“As expected of my dear friend—clear-sighted~~~”

Shelika let a small laugh ripple. “As far as I know, Charlotte’s communion works only on beasts. How are you sure she can command a Wasteland Deity?”

Cerise’s smile touched and went. “I read the classics, ran trials, and asked the god. Charlotte’s blood is impure, but her communion is strong. Speaking with a Wasteland Deity and earning trust—no problem.”

“How did you know she had it? Charlotte never flaunted it.”

“Before appointing someone to a vital post, we investigate in detail. Besides, during service she often rode an A-rank beast—the Blood-Seeking Hound—around camp. Isn’t that its own kind of flaunting~~~”

Silence held Shelika a breath, a cloud over a moon. Then she asked, “So you’ve had your eyes on Charlotte for a long time?”