A door of solid stone stood between Sailor Tempesti and the Primordial Shrine beyond. Set in a large rectangular arch, the slab of stone bore the same shallowly carved symbols as the rest of the Primordial Tower. Gouged deeply into the center was an inverted triangle slashed across with a single straight line. It was only the minute distance between the face of the slab and the arch that allowed her to recognize its purpose. Unsure how to continue, Tempesti ran her hands lightly along the surface, seeking a handle, a switch, anything that might grant her access. The statues bore mute witness to her fumbling and she was glad that they were the only ones present to see the absolute cluelessness with which she approached this place and its secrets. “You two can keep this between us, right?” She imagined them nodding their assent, new friends sworn to secrecy.

The door shifted slightly inward under the gentle pressure of her scrutiny, retreating briefly backward before sinking into a hence unseen slot in the ground with a quiet scraping hiss. Countless centuries of stale air assailed her as the door opened, mingled with a soft mossy smell. Tempesti retrieved her lantern and carried it into the strange warmth of the chamber. It was larger than she would have guessed from the outside, opening into a wider sanctuary as she passed through. Rough grey monoliths encircled a monumental stone altar carved into the shape of a stout, leafless tree. A hollow in the trunk held the shrine’s mensa, though dust and moss were the only offerings to be found. Dozens of crystals glistened among the branches from which they hung, their facets reflecting the feeble light cast by the camping lantern. Her routine remained the same as it had for the previous shrines, she could only hope that this more powerful site would be equally receptive to her cleaning efforts, and that it wouldn’t take offense at her use of dish soap to attend to the layers of (hopefully not sacred) dirt. Careful attention to each ridge of the carved bark, the smooth surface of the mensa, returned some of the altar’s sheen with each pass of the cleaning cloth. The crystals themselves were a somewhat stickier matter, requiring a series of awkward maneuvers and monkey-like climbing to ensure that they received their due treatment without fracturing the branches. Huffing a bit with the exertion, the senshi carefully climbed down the stone tree.

One more deep breath.

“Harrowing Storm!”

The smell of ozone and the soft clinking of crystals moving in the wind filled the chamber as her harpies flew forth, the darkness melting away with the renewed glow of each stone. Mesmerized, Tempesti gazed upward at the awakening altar with burgeoning hope and joy. There was no pollution here. Not within her or within her magic. She couldn’t bring herself to feel any anger at ancient lies. They were centuries dead, along with their speakers and believers. All that mattered in this moment shined before her, with her, in her.