When the last bead of dawn-dew fell, Worship Day arrived on time.

On Temple Street in the outer ward of the Holy City, the crowd surged like a human tide.

People pressed toward the gate that led inward, waiting for the hour like sparrows huddled before rain.

The grand inner gate still needed a spell of time to open, a stone eyelid not yet lifting.

Uneasy hearts fluttered; whispers rose about what the day would bring, reeds rattling before a storm.

“Did you hear? News rippled like a tossed pebble—The Three-Clan Council meets here today.”

“Yeah, sudden as a snap of thunder. Is there some big matter?”

“Who knows… the mist keeps its secrets.”

The news went public near dawn’s rim. Worshipers, here for rites, found uneasy speculations clinging like burrs to their thoughts.

After they confirmed it, people filled the tight waiting minutes with chatter, colorful as market banners, gnawing away their nerves.

Soon, talk fluttered like gossiping sparrows, landing on the most mysterious Dark Blood Clan and their Blood Clan Queen.

“The Blood Clan are all great beauties; their queen must be stunning, like moonlight on water!”

“True… but the queen hasn’t shown at the council for a long while, a star hidden behind clouds.”

“That… sounds bad, like a cracked bell. Did something happen within the Blood Clan?”

“How would outsiders like us know… but I’m sure the queen won’t be absent this time, a banner returning to wind.”

“Why?”

“Because the queen’s third child, Shelika—the Holy Maiden—is in the Holy City, a lantern lit in dusk.”

“Heh, the Holy Maiden… If only all Blood Clan were like her—beautiful and sacred, lilies under temple light.”

“If the queen keeps absent… with the Holy Maiden’s esteem, she might stand in for her… sigh, a young tree bent by duty.”

“Isn’t that good, like rain on parched fields?”

“Sigh…”

While they were steeped in talk, from the inner district the gate sent a mellow bell, a bronze wave rolling through air.

It was the bell that began Worship Day, and the signal that the outer-to-inner gate would open, like sunlight breaking cloud.

At the sound, nerves tightened like bowstrings. Talk stopped. Eyes fixed on the grand gate, waiting for the passage to unseal.

Soon the clamor hushed, dust settling after wind.

The gate sealing inner and outer was a single-leaf stone door, fifteen meters high, epic reliefs flowing like rivers of story.

Because of its weight and grain, opening it needed a clever mechanism, and several mages casting the Light Vessel spell, lifting like a barge.

Now, all the opening procedures stood in place, gears coiled like spring serpents.

A rumble rolled; the ground shivered like thunder under skin, and the massive stone door swung inward.

From the inner district alone, the Plaza of Descent’s sanctum-breath flowed out on the wind.

Wherever it spread, light softened and silence pooled, dusk settling over still water.

Within that breath, hearts felt touched like petals by rain, settling into calm and harmony, a serenity almost sweet.

The crowd entered the Holy City, a river passing a gate.

But outsiders entered in order, beads through a narrow clasp.

Naturally, those with deep faith in the servitor gods or the Earth Mother had priority, devotion burning like steady lamps.

They emerged first from the crowded sea of heads and gathered at the open gate, cranes stepping to a shore.

That devout band lifted their voices: “Praise the Earth Mother, and praise the night-world She founded!”

Their voices braided like river reeds.

As the scene grew more sacred and hushed, they knelt in unison, rose to take a few steps, then knelt again, waves bowing to shore.

Thus repeating, they moved forward while kneeling, devotion flowing like a rosary through fingers.

In this deeply devout fashion, they passed the tunnel and entered the inner district first, pilgrims crossing a narrow bridge.

After the most devout had gone in, the less devout and the sightseers followed, sparrows trailing after swans.

In truth, they were the majority, the broad river behind the spearpoint.

They entered the inner district like a festival procession, talking and laughing, voices tossing like colored flags.

Though their reasons for Worship Day differed, they shared one goal, a needle pointing north.

To pay homage to the rumored Wasteland Deity—sacred beyond measure, a once-in-a-lifetime sight like a comet.

According to the Shadowspirit Legion and the city lords, the Wasteland Deity was the key to the Gaia Empire’s victory, a keystone in the arch.

As their feet moved, hearts filled with nameless excitement and reverence, rising like incense in still air.

Inside Shelika, the mood ran cool and flat, a moon behind clouds; she felt none of the crowd’s awe.

To avoid being recognized, she worked on her disguise: a pale red cloak-robe and a conical hat draped in gold-thread fringe like rainstrings.

It was a common traveling outfit for women, ordinary as wheat and wind.

Under it she still wore that mortifying Holy Maiden regalia—no time to change, shame pricking like nettles.

Even so, with the outer garb, Shelika blended into the crowd, a drop swallowed by rain.

On Worship Day, travelers could visit freely, yet beyond the stone gate banners barred most ways, bands of cloth like quiet fences.

The crowd had to follow routes laid by those ribbon-fences, advancing, touring, and worshiping along set paths, water in channels.

So, not long after streaming inside, they reached the Worship Hall before the Plaza of Descent, geese coming to a lake.

Like the inner district’s other buildings, the hall was a grand terrace-temple palace, tiers like mountains under sky.

The priestly retinue guiding the rites received the crowd there, white cranes among reeds.

Each was a senior officiant of the Earth Mother Grand Hall, robes stitched with gold like sunlight threads, scepters and instruments gleaming like river-moon.

The robes’ gold light and the divine radiance coiling their tools made them blaze in the crowd, status shining like a crest.

Their leader stepped forward, hands open, voice bright as a bell. “Welcome. I am High Priestess Kariman. On this special, weighty day, allow me to lead you in worship.”

To the Dark Spirits, worship meant this: the Earth Mother shaped the land and fed all life with Her flesh and blood.

They set monthly rites, gratitude flowing like a river to Her.

After greetings, Kariman raised her scepter; light flared, and a foundation stone appeared at her feet, lifting like a tide.

Standing on the slab, Kariman stood a little higher than all, a torch on a step.

Then pipe-organ music drifted from all sides, serene and sacred, white clouds moving slow.

The stone served as a dais. She said, “Please, recite the hymn with me.”

Her words spread like rings on water.

Under that gentle, grand melody, she led the chant and the crowd followed, voices layering like rain on leaves.

“Earth Mother—great Earth Mother—”

“With Her body—cast the land—”

“With Her blood and tears—laid the rivers—”

“Great Earth Mother—granting life to all—”

“We are born in joy—we love You—”

The hymn ended soon; many wept, tears falling like warm rain.

High Priestess Kariman continued, voice clear as a horn. “All right, follow us to the Plaza of Descent. As citizens of the Gaia Empire, you’ll be honored by what you see next.”