Afia laces up her heavy, thick-soled boots in preparation for a day of running errands.  Next, she pulls her multitude of tiny braids back into a bun and secures it in place with a hair stick carved from the bone of a golden jackal hunted by her grandfather. Today’s hairstyle would most definitely stay in place. 

As one of the lower Holy Imanjar in the Temple of Victory, she is not entrusted with many tasks of great significance but is given a great many necessary ones. Today, she is tasked with delivering fresh bread to the Head Holy Imanjar, Vaza. A brand new bakery had opened in the capital and offered their first baked goods to the temple in an attempt to curry favor. After all, having representatives of the Deity of Victory would certainly help business. 

As the continent of Maharnak as whole had been peaceful, most offerings to the Temple of Victory were made in hopes of gaining personal success. There did exist a Deity of Luck and Chance, but the Deity of Victory, who represented guaranteed and utter triumph over competitors, was much more desirable. Afia herself had chosen to serve in the temple because it was the most affluent— even as a lower level Holy Imanjar, she was given a decent amount of food, practical clothing, and a warm place to sleep. Growing up the fourth child in a household of eleven (four elders, two parents, five children), Afia knew she needed a stable income if she wanted to help the rest of her family thrive. Her parents, elders, and siblings all loved her whole-heartedly. Each family member was more than willing to sacrifice for her happiness, but she wanted to repay them as quickly as possible rather than to ask for more. In fact, Afia’s wish to the Goddess of Victory was that her family would overcome any hardship and live in good health and happiness.

Afia gathers up the loaves of bread in her arms and strikes off for Vaza’s office. She decides to take a longer route that winds behind the gardens to avoid Austran’s office, since running into him would extend her trip by threefold. These gardens are quite the sight with wrapping vines, wild flowers, and trees reclaiming the grounds around the Temple of Victory. The elderly man that serves as the Holy Imanjar’s gardener keeps the paths clear and the flowers free of weeds but does little else to manipulate the plants’ growth. Afia actually prefers it this way, as the tall growth provides shade from the blazing sun and an organic beauty lacking elsewhere. The rest of the Temple is constructed from a mixture of ash (collected from the cities destroyed in the battles that earned the Temple of Victory’s title) and lime. While durable and awe-inspiring, the Temple lacked any warmth or homeliness. 

Making her way through the garden, Afia hears a voice from behind a trellis off of wisteria, climbing roses, and clematis. The thick and thorny branches of the roses prevents her from creeping closer to the organic wall, but she still manages to come close enough to make out what is being said. 

“The situation is getting more serious. Attacks of strange mangled creatures are occurring more frequently. The commoners are frightened, but more importantly growing restless with the Holy Imanjar as a whole. The nobles always hated our growing power and refuse to make any efforts to assist us. The martial arts sects are more than happy to take on the job and send out mercenaries but they demand their status be raised to be the equal of the temples. Allying with the martial arts sects in such a manner would alienate the nobles further. We’ll be lucky to solve this without causing a civil war.” 

Afia recognizes this as the voice of Vaza, colored with fear and anger. 

A voice unfamiliar to Afia responds softly. “Hush now, it’s going to be alright. We’ve always pulled through before. Just like the good old days back in the village! I remember when the cow broke into Muggy Martha’s barn and—“

“Magpie! This is on an entirely different scale! The commoner’s have been calling us Divine Puppets— we aren’t even fit for that title! Every darn faction in this continent has got a string tied to us. One wrong move and those strings will get tangled around our necks! I-I don’t know how to go forward, the Goddess hasn’t even responded to my prayers yet. She’s busy dealing with other deities. Apparently some haven’t been responding to her recently, I-I…” The sound of quiet crying seems to flood into Afia’s ears.

She creeps back from the flowering wall and returns to path as she hears Magpie’s voice one last time.

“There, there. I have a plan. If we can’t solve this issue with other forces, we just need to make our own. Something we can control, Divine Puppets of our own. I will ask the God of Magic’s Holy Imanjar for help. It will all be alright.” For some reason, Magpie’s honeyed tone turns Aria’s stomach. 

She sprints down the path towards Vaza’s office, deposits the bread in an unceremonious heap, and rushes back to her room. She packs up her saved rations and a few spare sets of clothes into a tidy bag alongside a set of daggers given to her for self defense. Her hands shaking, she writes a letter in case anyone looks for her.

“Gone to see family. Be back in two days.”

She needs to know her family is safe. Vaza had never had even a quiver in his voice before, not six years ago when a group of bandits broke into the temple in search of wealth and glory, not when the temple flooded three years ago, not then not ever. But he had cried today. Afia is scared to even recognize what this means. Her first priority is her family. Her wish to the Goddess was their safety; if they weren’t safe, her service meant nothing. In a situation where even the most pure vassal of the Goddess was terrified, no loyalty to the temple would stop her from fighting tooth and nail for the people that meant the world to her.