The Moonbirch Altar stood at the Shrine's inner spine, a dais of silvery timber polished by centuries of bare feet. Tall pillars of living birch twined overhead, white bark etched with vow-runes that glowed faintly whenever someone stepped inside. Tonight, those runes shimmered like snowlit rivers as Saintess Myria crossed the threshold, sandals tucked beneath her arm, toes sinking into cool grain.
She paused, inhaling resin tinged with moonleaf oil. Lanterns hung in quiet constellations along the ceiling, each flame reflecting in broad pools of still water surrounding the altar. The whole chamber felt afloat, like an island carried atop gently breathing waves.
