The Temple of Moonpetals pulsed with soft enchantment. It wasn't the garlands of glimmering silk or the lanterns glowing like bottled stardust that caught the nobles' breath—it was the air itself, scented faintly of moon lilies and sandalwood, carrying the hush of a sacred place remade for power and beauty. The walls whispered with history, but tonight, they listened.
One by one, noble houses entered the hall with their candidates in tow, each young woman a vision of grace and ambition. Silks shimmered like dragonfly wings, hair adorned with pearl and obsidian combs. Smiles were painted as carefully as their rouge.
After all, to catch the king's eye was to change one's fate forever.
Ripples of whispers spread like wind across a quiet lake.
"Who arranged this?" one noblewoman murmured, eyes drifting toward the glistening water path that traced the center of the room like a river of light.
"It's breathtaking," replied another, her fan fluttering as if to cool the fire of envy beneath her tongue.
A third noble, tall and thin as a reed, chuckled softly. "I was told it was none other than Concubine Shithal."
"Shithal?" The first noble arched a perfectly plucked brow. "Then she must be just as clever as she is beautiful."
"And His Majesty is wise indeed," the reed-like noble added. "To trust her with something this visible and significant. Not every concubine gets such responsibility."
"She's clearly earned the king's favor," another noblewoman whispered behind her fan. "Perhaps more than some who wear crowns."
The words hung in the air like incense—pleasant on the surface, but sharp beneath.
Xioli, standing near the carved moonstone arch with her hands folded neatly in front of her, heard every word. Her posture remained proper, but her heart swelled with pride. *My lady...* She had watched Shithal oversee every candle placement, every floral note, every shimmering ripple of water that flowed across the ceremonial tiles. To hear her efforts praised by highborn tongues? Xioli had never felt prouder.
And then—the clang of a ceremonial gong.
A royal guard, dressed in white and gold, raised his voice with crisp authority. "Make way! His Majesty King Arthro, Queen Roselin, and the honored concubines—Lady Shithal and Lady Fifi—arrive!"
A rustle of silks and an echo of footsteps filled the chamber as every noble stood and bowed low.
The royal procession entered like a slow-moving storm of grace and gravity. King Arthro led, his midnight-blue robes brushed with gold threads that shimmered like the stars. On his right, Queen Roselin moved with a quiet dignity, the soft swell of her stomach just beginning to show under her gown—whispers of the heir she carried floated beneath her steps. Behind them, Shithal and Fifi followed with contrasting auras: Shithal, serene and self-assured, in a robe of moonlight silver with a sapphire lotus at her waist; Fifi, the sweet bloom known as His Majesty's Chosen Flower, dressed in soft peach and blinking with calculated innocence.
They took their seats on the elevated platform, each to their designated throne, carved from the ancient moonwood that grew only near the northern cliffs. The king gave a slight nod, and the nobles eased into their seats again.
Arthro turned slightly toward Shithal, his gaze warm—too warm. "You've outdone yourself," he said, his voice carrying across the temple like silk on stone. "The Temple of Moonpetals has never looked so radiant."
Shithal bowed her head just so, letting her long earrings brush her cheeks. "It is only because Your Majesty believed in me." Her voice was quiet, her eyes anything but.
She looked directly at Roselin, then at Fifi, her smile demure—yet edged like a blade wrapped in velvet.
The message was received.
Roselin's lips remained still, her chin lifted with the poise of a queen who would not be baited in public. Her hands, however, gripped the arms of her chair just a touch too tightly.
Fifi let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, shifting her gaze downward.
Shithal tilted her head, serene.
The king rose, and silence fell.
"Noble ladies," his voice rang clear, his arms open as though embracing every family in attendance, "welcome to the Choosing of the Maidens. Tonight, some among you will be chosen to enter the palace, to serve, to shine, and perhaps... to rise." He paused, letting the implication linger.
"And to those not selected—do not despair. Fate has many doors, and today is but one of them."
A round of polite applause echoed through the chamber, but some clapped with stiff fingers and careful smiles. The air thickened with hope, envy, and calculation.
In the front row, a girl in golden silk pressed her palms together tightly, as if willing herself forward. A few rows behind her, another candidate bit her lip, trying not to look at the dais where Fifi smiled dreamily and Shithal blinked slow, dangerous blinks.
At the side of the temple, Xioli watched. She knew her lady had won this round, at least in the eyes of the nobles. And yet... she glanced at Queen Roselin's swelling belly, at the queen's silence. Power shifted in quiet moments.
The Choosing had just begun.
And beneath all the beauty, the game of thorns had already drawn blood.
All the noble candidates started performing their skills. From dancing to singing, music and instrument, arts and crafts everything-
The Temple of Moonpetals shimmered under its spellbound glow, but in an instant, that serenity fractured.
A crack of thunder tore through the sky.
Candles flickered wildly. The silk garlands fluttered as though gripped by invisible hands. Outside the ornate windows, clouds blackened like ink spilled across heaven. The scent of moon lilies soured, tinged now with ozone and something… unclean.
King Arthro shot to his feet. "What is this madness?" he barked. "Guards—explain this!"
Gasps broke among the noblewomen. Some reached for their daughters, clutching hands tight enough to bruise. The palace guards, trained and disciplined, surged forward like a tide of gold and white.
Shithal, her serenity shattered, fell to her knees. "Your Majesty," she cried, voice shaking but words clear, "before I chose this date, I consulted the royal astrologer. He assured me—today was the most auspicious."
Her robe pooled around her, silver catching the trembling lantern-light like liquid moonlight.
Arthro's jaw clenched, but his voice remained firm. "Rise. You are not to blame. This is… weather. A storm, nothing more."
Even as he spoke, thunder peeled louder, closer. A sinister wind screamed through the temple's rafters, extinguishing half the lanterns in a single breath. Shadows danced over sacred walls.
Queen Roselin paled, hands over her growing belly. Her composure was cracking, fear carving deep into her poised mask. Fifi, ever the darling of court, did not blink. Her fingers brushed the folds of her peach gown, but her gaze stayed steady, narrowed and watchful.
Then came the lightning.
Not a streak, but a column—white-blue fire slamming into the earth just outside the ceremonial courtyard. The entire temple shook. Glass panes splintered. Stone tiles groaned.
From the heart of the storm, the clouds twisted into a vortex, spinning with terrifying grace. A searing circle burned itself into the ground, splitting the sky like a wound. The air tore open—and through that wound came creatures that didn't belong to this world.
Twisted beings, horned and clawed, black as ink with crimson eyes. Their screeches could flay the mind. They lunged, one after another, pouring from the rift like maggots from a carcass.
"Protect the king and queen!" a guard screamed.
Steel rang against bone. Spears were thrust. Shields raised. Chaos erupted.
Shithal froze, her eyes locked on a devil charging toward her, fangs glinting, claws outstretched.
And then—silver flashed.
A blur moved like the wind. A sword sang through the air, cleaving the beast mid-lunge. Blood sizzled as it touched the temple floor.
There she stood.
A figure, tall and commanding, veiled from nose to neck. Her garment, white as starlight, swirled like smoke. The hem shimmered as if made from frost and moonlight. Her face, partly obscured, bore no crown, no emblem—only a presence so divine, even the devils seemed to pause.
She turned her head, eyes glowing faintly behind the veil.
Another creature lunged.
She didn't flinch.
Steel flashed again—clean, merciless. It dropped like a severed branch.
Gasps rang out among the nobles.
"She—who is she?"
"Is that... a priestess?"
"No… no, she fights like a knight."
Not just a knight. A storm. She moved as though born from battle and blessing. Each step she took was poetry; each strike, judgment.
Three more beasts charged—she danced between them. Her blade curved, spun, and arced through the air. Limbs fell. Screams echoed. Not hers—theirs.
Guards began to rally behind her. Her courage was contagious.
Still, the devils kept coming.
She drew a second weapon—a dagger inscribed with ancient runes, glowing faintly.
She stabbed it into the floor.
A ripple of light pulsed from the point of impact. She stepped into it, began whispering—no, chanting—in a language long buried.
Golden script snaked across the tiles, forming a glowing sigil wider than the temple dais. Energy roared through it, curling like flame around each line. Her voice rose, matching the fury of the storm.
The devils screamed in fury. Some charged again—only to be swallowed by the light the moment they touched the edge of her circle.
The temple pulsed.
Magic was being woven.
The figure raised her sword high. Its edge caught what little moonlight pierced the clouds.
With a sharp cry, she slashed downward. The glowing circle erupted in searing light. The creatures shrieked as chains of energy lashed around them, dragging them inward. The portal hissed and shimmered.
One by one, the devils were forced back into the rift.
Her veil flared behind her as she moved, unrelenting.
Then—with one final motion—she flung her dagger into the heart of the glowing sigil. It struck true.
A burst of energy surged skyward. The portal buckled—then snapped shut like a clenched fist.
Silence fell.
No thunder. No shrieks. Only stunned breaths and crackling embers.
And then... a groan of ancient wood.
The Temple of Moonpetals—its main door, sacred and sealed except for royal processions—creaked open. Without a hand touching it.
Petals floated down from the rafters—moonpetals, pale and glowing, as if falling from unseen branches above.
The temple itself seemed to exhale, its enchantments realigning.
As if recognizing its new guardian.
The figure stepped forward. Sword sheathed. Head high.
The nobles parted as if moved by divine command. None dared speak. None dared move.
She passed by Queen Roselin, who clutched her belly tightly, her eyes wide with fear and awe.
She passed Shithal, whose face had turned bloodless, fingers curled against her silver gown in unreadable emotion.
She paused briefly before Fifi, who for the first time looked uncertain.
Then she ascended the steps of the dais—not toward the throne, but toward the now-open temple gate.
The moonlight broke free from the clouds at last, catching the threads of her veil, making her seem more spirit than flesh.
And then… she turned.
Just for a moment.
Her eyes scanned the chamber once more.
Every noble, every concubine, every guard—held still beneath that gaze.
She bowed.
Not deeply—but with a grace that demanded reverence.
The doors closed behind her. Without a sound.
Xioli, watching from the shadows, felt her knees weaken.
"Who was that?" someone finally whispered.
But no one could answer.
Only one thought remained, etched into every trembling heart:
The Temple of Moonpetals had welcomed a goddess.
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