Moonrise hung low and gold between the cedar trunks when Lady Moonbeam reached a secluded clearing known only to the Lunar priestesses: Moonshadow Hollow. A shallow, mineral-rich basin filled most of the glade, its surface thick and velvety as wet clay. The air smelled of damp loam, crushed mint, and the faint sweetness of night-blooming cress. Tiny fire-motes (lunar wisps) drifted above the pool, glowing just bright enough to outline a path.
Moonbeam wore a knee-length asher-grey tunic of raw moon-silk—sleeveless, unbelted, translucent in the waxing light. Beneath it, soft linen shorts offered modest coverage while allowing her full freedom of motion. She had left boots and arm-guards back at the citadel; tonight her only adornments were a single crescent-silver ear cuff and the white frangipani tucked behind her ear.
She began the rite by circling the pool clockwise three times, chanting a low, steady mantra that matched her measured breaths. With each circuit she loosened a ribbon of her worries—council quarrels, patrol reports, diplomatic debts—tying them in knots of steam that drifted skyward and vanished.
At the mossy rim she paused, inhaled the cool forest air, and stepped forward. Bare toes sank into the perimeter sludge with a satisfying hush. Footprints blossomed behind her—perfect impressions of heel, arch, and toe—quickly filling with a sheen of water that reflected moonlight like tiny mirrors. She wiggled her toes, noting how the mud welcomed every contour, then took another deliberate step, and another, leaving a gentle, muddy trail that would fade by dawn.
Rather than rushing ankles-deep, she lifted each foot slowly, rotating the sole so the mud slid across skin in lazy, spiralling sheets—an exercise taught to acolytes for grounding one's focus. Coolness wrapped her feet; warmth followed as the clay's latent heat bled upward, easing cramped muscles from the day's march.
Waist-high now, she felt the mud's weight turn from playful to supportive—a tranquil cradle that exhaled heat gathered during daylight. Moonbeam spread her arms, palms grazing the surface in broad arcs that left silvery wakes. She whispered a gratitude verse in Old Lunari:
"Mother Earth, cradle my pulse;
Moon above, temper my mind;
Between you both, let stillness bloom."
The clay's viscosity thickened around her ribs, drawing her deeper not by force but by coaxing equilibrium. Each breath she released bubbled upward in slow pearls, releasing tension from shoulder to hip.
Low shrubs and creepers rimmed the hollow. When the mud neared her collarbones, she tilted her head back until dark curls floated on the surface, barely touching the leaves overhead. A tender breeze jostled one vine loose; it dangled, brushing her forehead. She closed her eyes, attuning to the leaf's subtle scratch—a reminder of the living canopy that watched and sheltered.
That single contact became her metronome. At every gentle stroke she inhaled through the nose, counting four heartbeats; as the leaf lifted on the breeze she exhaled, letting the mire carry away the exhale's warmth.
Slowly she felt the familiar quiet bloom behind her sternum—the Lunar Calm—an almost musical resonance that sang of moss, moonlight, and cool stone corridors back home.
When she was ready, Moonbeam bent her knees the final span, easing under until only the crown of her head broke the surface. Mud folded like velvet curtains around her face, muffling the forest into a soft heartbeat thrumming through warm clay. In that darkness she pictured the tides of Lunna's sapphire sea, ebbing worry out, drawing strength in.
A minute later she rose, slow as dawn. Mud slid from her cheeks in smooth ribbons, revealing eyes bright with renewed resolve. She pressed one palm to her abdomen—feeling heat, steadiness, stillness—then wiped a streak of clay across her brow in the mark of lunar blessing.
Wading back, she let excess clay sheet off her tunic, then stepped onto the bank where dew-cooled ferns tickled her ankles. Kneeling, she flattened a palm beside her outgoing footprints, sealing the rite. Within moments water seeped to erase all but a faint outline—evidence of presence, not domination.
Moonbeam dressed in silence, wrapping the moon-silk sash about her waist. She left the frangipani blossom on a flat stone by the pool, a thank-offering. Behind her, the hollow returned to hush, the mud's surface mirror-smooth beneath scattered wisps of lunar fire.
She walked toward the treeline—feet still bare, steps feather-quiet—carrying the calm back to her citadel like fresh moonlight cupped in her hands.
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