Soraya sat cross legged on the floor before the fire altar. The heat of the flames made the air around it shimmer, and sparks flew out from the burning coal. Soraya stared at the flame until her eyes saw spots, until the smoke made her eyes water. She blinked and looked away. She didn’t know what she hoped to see in the fire, but she hadn’t found it yet.

A soothing stream of prayers automatically spilled from Soraya’s mouth, the words practiced and precise. Behind her, dozens of priests and hundreds of laypeople said the words together with her. The temple was filled to bursting with worshippers, at least five hundred peasants and commoners, and more of them spilling out the doors. The priests, dressed in simple red ceremonial garments, would be laying prostate on the raised dais before the fire altar. Behind them, the common people would be bending their heads forward, too crowded together to fully bow.

With such a crowd, one would expect noise and fuss, or at least a low murmur running up and down the rows. But here, inside the sacred space, there was only silence. It was a moment that held power like a brazier held fire- it was hers, and hers to control.

At the appropriate moment in the prayer, Soraya tossed a handful of hibiscus petals into the flame and watched them curl up as they burned. There were dozens of flames like this one that burned eternally in each shrine of the Grand Temple, and the temple had hundreds upon hundreds of shrines. This particular flame was the main altar in Mithra’s preeminent shrine. That meant it was one of the most revered and sacred of the temple’s flames, short only to the Great Fire itself. Soraya had always been taught that each fire was unique, with its own personality, its own history. This flame, she had been told, was almost a thousand years old, first consecrated by the great Magi Sadeh herself. The fire was only fueled with camel thorn branches taken from the very peak of Mount Alam, and the petal offerings of prayer. Soraya imagined she could feel the fire’s presence, that sort of haughty yet dignified air of an elderly grandfather. She imagined hearing its satisfied hum as she fed it with another handful of petals.

Soraya at last came to the conclusion of the ceremony, finishing the rhythmic chant. She stood to her feet and turned around. She took one moment to survey the scene before her, the grand arch of the temple’s dome, the priests bowing low, and the mass of people crushed together. All of them faced toward her, all of them looked to her to lead. A small chill crawled over her skin.

“Arise,” Soraya said. The priests moved to sit on their knees instead of pressing their foreheads to the marble floor, and the common people opened their eyes and lifted their faces.

“Though our hearts are dark, Mithra’s light still shines down upon us,” She said. Her voice echoed and carried in the enormous domed room. “Go in peace, and know that the giver of Fire goes with you.”

At this, the silence broke. The ceremony was over. The crowd’s volume returned to normal, with worshippers muttering prayers, talking to their neighbors, and beginning to funnel out of the crowded space.

Soraya stepped down from the altar and her priests rose to meet her. Shapur and Farnaz were the only two to approach her directly. As the Grand temple’s magis, only they held that right.

“The fire glows bright this day, your highness,” Farnaz said. Her long straight hair was silver all the way through. It hung free today, framing her weathered face with a curtain of silk.

“What has been the news?” Soraya asked as she smiled and nodded at worshippers who passed by, staring at her in awe.

“Esfandar is securing his hold on the city,” Shapur answered as they exited the grand dome of Mithra’s shrine into the blinding sun. “Nothing more than that for now.”

Soraya hummed in acknowledgement. They traversed the central courtyard of the Grand Temple, walking across its north-south axis. The dark red sandstone beneath their feet gleamed in the sunlight, the geometric shapes carved into its surface giving it the impression of a giant stone tapestry.

The courtyard was bordered by the four high temples, one in each cardinal direction. To the south, the direction which they came from, stood Mithra’s temple, the House of Fire. It was the largest and most intricately designed temple of the four, representing Mithra’s superior seat in the pantheon. Directly across from it, to the north, was the temple of Anahita, the House of Water. It was nearly as large as Mithra’s temple, but in comparison the architecture was subdued, with fewer sharp eaves and richly sculpted friezes in favor of gently curving archways and domed rooves.

To the west stood the temple of Hufriya, the House of Life and across from hers the temple of Rashnu, the House of Death. The temples of Hufriya and Rashnu were smaller than either Anahita’s or Mithra’s, but still impressive in their own right. They were mirror images of each other, the House of Life gleaming like freshly fallen snow in white marble, the House of Death demure and ominous with its black granite façade.

The monk’s living quarters and the temple’s administration were housed not in any of the four great temples, but in the various smaller shrines and buildings that surrounded it. Soraya turned northeast, intending to visit the main monastery and discuss the state of the war with the fully assembled mobedin. Before she and the two magis had stepped outside of the central courtyard, a priest hurriedly intercepted them, his brows furrowed with urgency.

“Your highness, Your Holinesses,” he said, bowing to them all. When he straightened again, he ignored Soraya and Shapur, instead speaking to Farnaz directly. “There has been an attempted breach of the cave of stars. The thief has been captured alive and is held there at this moment.”

“What?” Farnaz replied sharply, surprise and anger clear in her face. Her eyes then narrowed. “What did they try to steal?”

“From the underground stores…” The priest answered, which struck Soraya as an effective way of avoiding the question. She saw Shapur frown out of the corner of her eyes.

Farnaz opened her mouth, most likely to demand more information, but Soraya spoke first.

“Take us there now,” she commanded. He nodded quickly and turned, hurrying off in the direction he’d came from. They ran after him as he traversed through the maze of onion-like domes and steeped spires that scattered the temple grounds. The heat of the sun quickly made sweat begin to drip down Soraya’s neck. The priest at last stopped and entered an unremarkable, sandstone shrine, one with almost no discernable decoration or artistic flare. Soraya entered the shrine second, Farnaz and Shapur following at her heels. Soraya looked around the small room. It was not a shrine she’d ever visited before, its walls completely bare. Unlike other more popular shrines, this one was empty of any worshippers.

Soraya did recognize the small figure on a pedestal at the back of the room, just behind the small but steady eternal flame burning in its brazier. Urvan, the god of doorways, crossed his legs in a meditative pose. The stone figurine of Urvan was remarkably detailed in the drapery of his garments and the serene, almost sly, expression of his eyes. His skin was painted a light green hue, to match shade of the two birds perched upon each of his shoulders. The twin sparrows were Urvan’s servants, listening to everything whispered behind locked doors and reporting the secrets back to their master.

Soraya tore her gaze away from the god’s figure when the sound of scraping stone assaulted her ears. The priest pushed back part of the wall, revealing a previously hidden staircase crawling its way down below.

Soraya immediately turned to the two magis behind her- neither of them seemed surprised in the slightest by this.

“You knew about this already.” Soraya’s words were an accusation, not a question. Farnaz’s scowl deepened and Shapur had the dignity to bow his head in apology.

“We’re sorry, your highness,” he said. “But there are some things we cannot tell even you- things that have passed down from the gods over generations of magis.”

Soraya clenched her hands into fists in frustration but bit back a reprimand. This was not the time for this argument- not when a thief awaited them down below. Without another word, she turned and descended down the stairs.

Sconces of lit torches lined the walls as they went deeper underground and the light of day faded behind them. It must have been three or four stories deep, Soraya surmised, before the stairs ended and they emerged into a wide, open chamber. The ceiling was low, so much that Soraya could have brushed her hand against it if she stretched, and the torch-lined walls only dimly lit the place.

Shelves and chests and crates littered every corner of the chamber, fill to bursting with so many precious items that Soraya’s eyes could hardly settle on one before another grabbed her attention. Beautiful statues of celestial yakshi dancers lined the walls, so sensuous and lithe that Soraya thought they would jump out of their poses and into song at any moment. One shelf was entirely stuffed with ancient, weathered scrolls, and next to it a box was filled to the brim with small, hexagonal coins cut not from any metal, but what appeared to be opal.

“Here she is, your majesty.”