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As we slip inside, I encourage my flame to reach higher to illuminate the modest interior. Unlike the lush, fragrant temples of other gods, Cyphero’s sanctuary is austere. Measurement tools hang on the walls instead of tapestries, and a simple stone table etched with mathematical formulas instead of prayers comprises the altar.

Bastian blinks a few times as if orienting himself. “The entrance should be⁠—”

“Right there.” Agnar stalks ahead, pushing the altar aside with a scrape of stone to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

The stairs are worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, moss growing in the cracks between stones. I take the lead, my flame casting an unsteady light as we proceed. With each step, the air grows cooler and damper, carrying the scent of old paper along with a sharper odor. Chemicals, perhaps.

“So, this sect of the scientist-priests.” Bastian’s voice echoes in the narrow passage. “They’ve been the kingdom’s thinkers for generations. Measuring stars, charting weather patterns, creating medicines. But in recent months, they’ve become afraid. Some have gone into hiding. Others simply disappeared.”

“Why?” I take cautious steps on the slippery surface. “What frightened them?”

Bastian shrugs. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Let’s hope information is all we encounter,” Rafe’s ominous statement prickles my skin.

The stairway finally opens into a large circular chamber. Half laboratory, half shrine in appearance. My magic illuminates worktables covered with delicate instruments, shelves of books and scrolls, and in the center, a smaller altar to Cyphero.

But the room is in chaos, the air coated with a faint copper odor.

Papers scattered across the floor crunch beneath our boots. Chairs lie overturned, shelves hang broken from walls, and dark stains mark the stone floor in irregular patterns.

“Blood.” Agnar kneels to examine one of the stains. “It’s not fresh.”

Well, I guess that explains the copper.

No ever-lights illuminate the space, so I swallow hard and use my fire to light wall sconces and candles. The flames leap to their new homes, almost too eagerly, and bathe the crypt in dancing light that does nothing to dispel the heaviness in the air.

Anger and worry trickle down my spine. What the hells happened here? Who would disrupt Cyphero’s temple like this? “Spread out. Search for anything that might tell us what they discovered. And why it potentially got them killed.”

We disperse through the room, our shadows flickering across the walls as we cautiously navigate the debris.

Helene crouches to pick up a shattered crystal lens. “Someone didn’t want their research found.”

Rafe heads to a workbench where intricate measuring devices remain mostly untouched. His fingers brush over a brass instrument with delicate gears. “So methodical. They documented everything.”

I find myself drawn to a shelf of bound journals, their leather covers worn from frequent handling. Opening one at random, I find page after page of meticulous notes written in a cramped, precise hand. “I’ve got something.”

The others step over broken furniture and equipment to gather around.

The journal contains systematic observations of prayer responses throughout the kingdom. Pages full of data, tables, measurements, and conclusions that clench my stomach.

I start reading aloud. “Prayers are being answered more frequently. Worshippers leave temples feeling drained yet compelled to return. The prayer-response cycles are intensifying.”

Bastian flips open another journal. “They were tracking patterns across different gods. Look. Some prayers seem to build fear and desperation while others focus on hope and faith. But in either case…”

“Mortals have ramped up their devotion,” Rafe finishes, skimming over Bastian’s shoulder. “More prayers, more offerings, more connections to the gods.”

Helene scrunches her nose in disgust. “More power flowing to those ancient fucks.”

I can’t help but agree, which is a horrible thought. As I flip through more pages, my unease grows. The later entries become more frantic, the handwriting less precise. Charts show spikes in divine activity that correlate with increased prayer gatherings.

Two pages stick together. Once I manage to separate them, I turn to the next one and freeze. Reddish brown stains—probably the cause of the stickiness—discolor the paper.

Blood.

Ignoring the dread squirming in my gut, I read the final entries. They’re rushed. Desperate.

“Look at these.” Helene points to a series of sketches pinned to a wall on the other side of the room.