Sheep Horn Town center.
Church.
The chilly, icy moonlight streamed through vine-like window panes, casting mottled, twisted shadows on the floor.
The warm and gentle atmosphere, resembling that of a barn during the day, vanished under the shroud of night, leaving only an eerie silence.
The wall lamps were extinguished; candles that should have been lit rested quietly in the depths of darkness.
Such a vast church, with its only light source being the pale Silver Moon beyond the skylight.
And right in that beam of light, like a spotlight descending from the dome, under the silver-white moon glow.
A hunched, frail elderly figure, as he had for over twenty thousand nights before, knelt at the feet of the goddess, offering his devout and humble faith.
Unlike usual, Priest Moen, who always showed himself as ordinary, was particularly solemn on this night, donning a brown-green ceremonial robe he reserved for significant holidays or celebrations.
