He released Eliot's shoulder and moved to stand before him, blocking one of the shafts of light so his face fell into shadow, becoming a dark silhouette against the rose-red glow of the carved wall behind him.
"But you've touched Her water. You've broken the covenant. You've made this personal."
The smile that split his weathered face held no warmth, no humor—only the cold satisfaction of a problem neatly solved, of cosmic order maintained through blood and pain. "So I'll offer you as sacrifice to Her. And perhaps, if She's pleased, the eastern pit will flow more freely
His forehead touched the mask.
The world exploded into light.
Not gentle light, not the warm gold of sunrise or the silver of moonlight or even the rose-red glow that permeated the carved shrine. This was light in its most primal form—pure, violent, absolute. It erupted from the mask like a volcano of illumination, white-hot and searing, bright enough to burn shadows from stone and flesh from bone, bright enough to blind anyone foolish enough to look directly at its source.
Petran screamed. The axe fell from his hands, clattering against the polished floor, forgotten. He staggered backward, hands clawing at his eyes. "I can't see! Captain, I can't—"
Mardek released Eliot's hair, stumbling away, one arm thrown across his face. The nervous-eyed militiaman fell to his knees, weeping, praying, his words tumbling over each other in incoherent terror.
The rose-red walls blazed crimson, then white, the natural striations of the stone becoming channels for that terrible radiance. The geometric patterns carved into every surface seemed to come alive, to pulse with purpose, as though they'd been designed specifically to channel and amplify this moment, this power, this transformation.
The goddess statue's eyes blazed like captured suns brought down to earth and trapped behind lids of stone. Those carved eyelids, sealed for untold centuries, perfectly rendered down to the individual lashes, cracked with sounds like mountains breaking, like the earth splitting apart during the birth-throes of creation.
The sound was physical—it hit Eliot's chest like a fist, drove the air from his lungs, rattled his teeth in their sockets, vibrated through the floor and walls until the entire shrine seemed to shudder. Dust rained down from the coffered ceiling. Small stones tumbled from between carved figures.
Captain Kael stood frozen, his face gone the color of old bone, his eyes wide with something that might have been awe or terror or religious ecstasy. His lips moved soundlessly, forming prayers or curses or simply the stunned incomprehension of a man watching his understanding of the world shatter like dropped pottery.
Cracks spider-webbed across the goddess's face, spreading from those blazing eyes, racing across her high cheekbones, down her straight nose, across her carved lips. The fissures glowed from within with that impossible light, as though her stone skin concealed something molten, something burning, something that had been trapped and dormant since the shrine's carving and was now finally, terribly free.
Then, from the goddess's cracked eyes, water began to fall.
A single drop formed at the corner of her left eye—perfect, spherical, catching the light like a jewel. It trembled on the edge of her stone cheek for a heartbeat, then fell, striking the polished floor with a sound like a bell.
Another drop formed. Fell. Another.
The goddess was weeping.
Tears streamed down her carved face—real tears, actual water flowing from stone eyes that should contain nothing but rock. The drops fell steadily, splashing against her outstretched hand, against the mask she held, pattering on the floor below.
"Water," Petran breathed, his voice filled with wonder, his earlier terror forgotten. His eyes—still watering from the blinding light—fixed on those falling tears with desperate hope. "She's giving us water. She's—"
"A blessing!" The nervous-eyed militiaman scrambled to his feet, hands reaching toward the statue. "The goddess blesses us! She provides!"
Even Captain Kael's weathered face softened, something like joy breaking through his usual iron control. "She weeps for us," he whispered. "After all these years of service, She finally weeps."
More drops fell from the statue's eyes. Faster now, a steady stream, dozens of drops per second splashing against stone. The sound filled the shrine—drip, drip, drip, like rain that never fell in the desert, like the promise of life, like salvation.
Then the walls began to weep.
Dark spots appeared on the rose-red stone—small at first, scattered across the carved surfaces like freckles on skin. The spots spread, merged, grew damp. Water seeped from the walls themselves, from the geometric patterns, from the carved scenes, from every pore in the stone.
Drops formed on the coffered ceiling, trembling on the carved rosettes before falling, pattering against the floor in an accelerating rhythm. The carved figures in the niches began to glisten with moisture, water beading on their stone robes, their stone hands, their stone faces.
"More water!" Mardek laughed—actually laughed, a sound of pure relief. "The whole shrine is weeping! Captain, we should get vessels, we should—"
The floor grew wet beneath their feet. Not flooding—not water coming from nowhere—but moisture seeping upward through the polished stone, making the surface slick, making it gleam.
Captain Kael frowned. "This is... this is too much. The shrine has never—"
His words cut off as he looked down at his hands.
They were wet.
Not from touching anything. Not from the drops falling around them. His hands were simply... wet. Water beaded on his skin, gathering in the creases of his palms, dripping from his fingertips.
"What—" He turned his hands over, watching water run across the backs, stream down his wrists. "Why am I—"
Petran's face had gone pale. "Captain. Captain, my tunic. It's..."
His uniform was soaked. Not damp—soaked, as though he'd been standing in rain for hours. Water dripped from the hem, ran down his legs, puddled at his feet. But there was no rain. Nothing had touched him. The moisture was simply... appearing.
"Mine too." Mardek's voice shook as he looked down at himself. His thick leather vest was dark with water, streaming, dripping. "Where is it coming from? How is—"
The nervous-eyed militiaman touched his face and his hand came away wet. He stared at his palm, confused, then touched his cheek again. "I'm sweating? But it's not hot, I'm not—"
A drop fell from his chin. Then another. Then a stream.
Not sweat.
Tears.