Mist clung to the broken stones of the old temple valley, thick enough that the distant peaks of the Divine Plane looked like ghosts. A pale-haired woman stepped through a thin fold in the air and landed lightly on moss-covered marble. Her black robes settled around her without a sound. She stood still for a moment, letting the residual divine energy of the place wash over her, tasting what remained of the old worship that once filled these ruins.
This had been a place for lesser offerings once — river gods, wind spirits, minor deities who never made the grand myths. Most of them were gone or diminished after Oblivion. The few who survived now lived under Adams' loose rule, quiet and careful. Perfect soil for quiet work.
She walked the cracked path between fallen columns, fingers brushing the stone. Wherever she touched, a faint silver sigil bloomed and then faded into the surface, almost invisible. Not a call to arms. Just a seed.
