The tenebrous plainsman knelt in the dust, brushing sand from a carved stone half-buried in the ground. Their glowing eyes pulsed brighter. The symbol matched the sketches in their journal—wheat stalks circling an empty throne. This had to be a marker pointing toward the eighth god's temple, the ruins everyone said were just legend. They stood and scanned the horizon. Somewhere out there, hidden beneath centuries of sand and silence, lay the truth about the forgotten deity. The plainsman pulled their cloak tighter against the wind. This stone was proof the temple existed. They just had to follow the trail. They knelt again and traced the carved lines with careful fingers. The stone grew warm under their touch. Blue light flickered across the runes etched into its surface. Shapes moved within the glow—figures that looked almost like dancers, circling and swaying. The plainsman opened their journal and sketched the pattern. According to the old maps, markers like this one formed a path. Each stone pointed to the next. Their heart beat faster. This was real. The eighth god's temple wasn't just a story whispered in taverns. It was waiting to be found.

The plainsman needed to understand the runes before going further. They spread their journal open on a flat rock and compared the glowing symbols to their notes. The dancing figures in the light moved in patterns—seven dancers circling one empty space. The eighth god's absence, marked in stone. They pulled out a piece of charcoal and copied each curve and line. Learning to read these markers was the first step. Without that knowledge, they'd wander the desert forever, chasing shadows instead of truth. The sun dropped below the horizon. The runes stopped glowing in the fading light. The plainsman needed more time to study them, but darkness was spreading fast across the desert. They reached into their pack and pulled out an iron lantern shaped like a skull. Sharp spikes jutted from its surface. They lit the wick inside and hung the lantern from a twisted root nearby. Harsh light spilled across the carved stone. The runes came back into view, their edges sharp and clear. The plainsman returned to their journal and continued copying. Each symbol brought them closer to reading the path. Each line meant one step less between them and the temple.