One: The Acolyte

Yael smoothed the wrinkles from her robes as she sat on the last of the temple’s limestone steps. She drew her sheer, white scarf about her face as the wind whipped sand through the plaza. She felt the fine grains sting the flesh of her hands. I should go inside. Finding oneself in a sandstorm, even enclosed by the high columns of the acropolis, could be disastrous. The storms were worse this year. They were worse every year, it seemed. The last of the large storms claimed three acolytes whose duty called them to venture into it. She turned to face the staircase leading to the temple and began to climb the steps rising to meet the ebony doors. Beyond those doors lay the sanctum. And the doors sat atop a dozen dozen steps. A holy number and a holy site. Her stomach tightened. She knew what waited for her inside.