The Necropolis of the Moon Goddess (Selket)
It was a solemn and sacred expanse of marble tombs, obsidian statues, and moonlit shrines, the Necropolis of the Moon Goddess. It lay nestled in a hidden valley surrounded by skeletal cliffs. Dedicated to Selket, the guardian of the veil between worlds, the place was both a cemetery and a temple.
The air here was always cool, regardless of the desert heat, and a soft luminescence coated the stone from the perpetual moonlight that never faded.
Disciples journeyed here not to mourn, but to commune, seeking visions from Selket in dreams, meditations, and ritual offerings. The necropolis was said to guard the threshold between life and death, where the soul's weight was measured, and the path beyond was revealed.
At its heart lay the Temple of Silver Tears, where the highest priestesses conducted rites to maintain cosmic balance, invoking the goddess through sacred hymns etched into the crypt walls in a language long forgotten by mortals.
The necropolis stretched for miles in an intricate labyrinth of silver-lit pathways, moon gardens, and sanctified burial halls, each aligned with the constellations above. Gentle streams of water, drawn from hidden springs, ran through carved stone channels, their surfaces shimmering like liquid starlight. Obsidian obelisks inscribed with ancient prayers rose in solemn watch, their tips glowing faintly with a ghostly silver flame.
Pilgrims walked barefoot upon the smooth marble, their steps echoing softly in the night air, for sound itself seemed subdued beneath Selket's gaze. The moon above never waned here, frozen in its fullest glory, casting her pale light upon every tomb and statue with reverence.
Around the central temple, alabaster spires curved skyward like grasping hands, and countless incense burners released slow, swirling smoke scented with myrrh and moon lotus. It was said that the boundary between realms was thinnest beneath the great lunar altar, a single, flawless slab of moonstone, where those brave or desperate enough could speak with the dead, though not all who tried returned unscathed.
The Necropolis was more than a resting place. It was a living testament to the divine mystery of death and rebirth, a place where the living came to understand the inevitability of their journey and the goddess who waited at its end.
This marked the structure of the Shadow Fang Sect. Pretty remarkable.
...
The rising sun spilled its pale light across the scorched desert, turning the sands into rivers of gold and shadow. A hot wind swept across the dunes, carrying with it the faint scent of burning sage and the low, distant hum of ceremonial bells.
Down the winding road that cut through the desert cliffs, a long stream of youths: boys and girls aged between fifteen and seventeen, moved steadily toward a looming silhouette on the horizon. Their robes, simple and sand-stained, billowed softly with every gust of hot wind. Some walked in silence, nerves tightening their faces; others whispered to each other, excitement and fear mixing in their voices.
Ahead of them, the Obsidian Citadel rose like a jagged monument from the side of the cliff, a fortress of black stone that shimmered under the unforgiving sun, drinking in its light and reflecting none. It was as though the structure itself rejected the world's warmth, standing solemn and eternal, a keeper of secrets no outsider had ever fully uncovered.
For centuries, the citadel had stood as the heart of the sect, a place of trials, learning, and power. It was here that disciples were stripped of childish innocence and reforged into something greater, or broken entirely.
The closer the youths came, the colder the air seemed to grow, as if the citadel cast a shadow not just over the land, but over the soul. The faint, rhythmic sound of chanting began to rise, deep and resonant, like a heartbeat from within the stone walls.
"Look," one of the boys whispered, his voice cracking under awe and fear. The others followed his gaze to the entrance, a colossal archway carved with jackal-headed figures, their obsidian eyes glinting faintly. Braziers lined the path leading inside, each one burning with blue-white fire that refused to flicker despite the wind.
For many of these young initiates, this was the beginning of everything: their first step into the life of the sect, where the strong were forged into warriors and mystics, and the weak were forgotten by history.
The gates of the Obsidian Citadel creaked open like the maw of a slumbering beast. The elders stood within, robed in layered black and silver, their faces hidden by jackal masks. Without a word, they beckoned the youths forward.
And so, with beating hearts and trembling hands, the children of the desert crossed the threshold, leaving behind the warmth of the sun for the cold, waiting darkness of the Citadel.
...