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I turn, careful not to brush up against the painting, to look at the priestess who has walked into the art room.
She wears a veil over her face, but I recognize her as one of the priestesses who leads the afternoon service.
“Sister.” Her voice is low and melodious. I smile at her, although part of me, the largest part of me, is still anchored in the painting. “It is time for us to attend the afternoon service. The congregation and other visitors have arrived.”
I nod graciously. I stand, slightly unsteady, and follow her out of the art room.
Outside the hall that hosts the daily religious services, I find a veil and carefully cover my face with it. When I look down, I see that there are streaks of paint on my hands.
I walk in quickly after the priestess and realize then that I am leading the prayer today.
You’re late. That’s why she came to find you,I think ruefully to myself as I take my place in front of the group of priestesses.
We stand in the shape of an inverted triangle and face the congregants, who look up at us expectantly.
Silence falls over the hall, and I inhale deeply as a single note is struck on a harp. The prayer that falls so easily from my lips is more like a song or a chant.
My voice reverberates throughout the hall, and I know that the sound of the prayer, the chant, can be heard throughout the entirety of the temple.
I feel my heart swell a thousand times as the other priestesses behind me join in. Together we call on Karona to bless us, guide us, and protect us.
I only stop when the bell tolls, indicating that the afternoon service is over. My body still sways in time with the music of the prayer.
I follow the other priestesses out of the hall, but instead of joining them in the dining room, I am drawn back to the art room.
All I can think of is the unfinished painting. When I look down, the streaks of paint seem even more vivid on my hands than before.
I love afternoon service, and I do not mind leading it, but I know that painting is the truest form of devotion to Karona that I can offer.
In the art room, I fold up my easel and canvas and pack up some paints.
Time has passed rapidly, and it is close to dusk outside. I walk, paints and canvas in hand, steadily towards the gazebo that was built in the center of a lake close to the temple.
Here, Karona’s will, her power, her beauty, is more obvious than even in the temple.
I take my veil off after I set up the easel and canvas, and I bask in the slowly rising moonlight.
At that moment, it is as if I am staring face-to-face with Karona. As if she is caressing my face with her gentle hands.
And I know that I have to create. I have to work.
I cannot ever let her down.
3
CARUS
Chaos encapsulates me. Screaming voices, thrashing bodies, and shiny blades are just some of the few things I notice. Just as I turn my head in another direction, I see blood spraying across the walls.
My work here seems sufficient.
Ducking my head, I make a quiet exit. Intending to admire my work from a vantage point, I use a rusty ladder to climb along the side of the tavern I just exited.
There, standing amidst the dirty debris and rubble, I look down upon my creation and laugh. It erupts loudly from my chest, but it still does nothing to mask the screams of terror and anguish coming from below.
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” I whisper to myself, crossing my arms over my chest as my eyes traverse the disorderly scene. “It’s a beautiful sight. One of the most beautiful things I could have ever created.”
Suddenly, the smile falls from my face. My eyes lock on a particular figure down below, staring up at me with malice and contempt all over his face. His upper lip curls before his jaw clenches tight.
