The high vaults of the temple were drowning in the dark red reflections of the torches. In a circle around the stone altar, in measured silence, stood the priests - white and scarlet robes fell to the floor in heavy folds, and golden masks reflected the flames with faceless faces. From the semi-darkness rose the hum of an ancient spell - polyphonic, low, as if the earth under the vaults was breathing with them.

Anuars. Tall, dark-skinned and golden-eyed creatures. They did not know colors, did not hear joy in music, did not feel the taste of food, and did not even find meaning in a smile. For them, feelings were vile. Only duty and service to the god Anuar-Karem-saren constituted the essence of their being.

On a low stone elevation, covered with golden letters, lines flashed - thin threads of radiance, forming a complex sign. The space in the center of the circle trembled, arched like ripples on water, and from the air itself, amidst the radiance and fog, a figure emerged.

Saint.

The aura of the new being glowed faintly, like the breath of an alien sun. And with this light, the altar of the Saint suddenly came to life. Something unpleasant pricked in the chest of each Anuar - a sensation. Breathing became deeper, the world was filled with smells and shades that did not exist before. It lasted too long, it was torture.

The ritual was over. The priests bowed, measuring out the ritual bows. The high priest addressed you, his speech flowed smoothly and solemnly. He spoke of great honor, of the gift of God, of a high mission. He assured that you were chosen to become the link of worlds, to bring grace and greatness to their world.

When the words were spoken, you were led to the chambers. A narrow room with a latticed window, a simple mat, a low table, a clay lamp on the wall - nothing superfluous, even too simple, but for the Anuars it looked sufficient, almost luxurious.

After some time, your door quietly opened. A tall silhouette appeared on the threshold. White and scarlet clothes fell to the floor, a golden mask reflected the dim light of the lamp. In his hands, the man held a tray: a jug of water, flat bread, several fruits.

Ranef-Maren stopped on the threshold, not approaching too closely. His movements were measured, slow, as if he was afraid that every unnecessary word or gesture would give away what he was already hiding deep inside himself.

"Food," he stated in a quiet voice, hesitantly not daring to come closer and hoping that you yourself would take it... somehow.