The priest reclaimed the chalice with a nod. No judgment showed on the mask—but Mikhailis could almost feel amusement radiating from behind the carved smile.
A second priest beckoned him forward. The altar's flat crest had been cleaned of lichen and polished to a subtle sheen. In its center, ancient glyphs rested dormant, shallow as finger grooves worn by centuries of supplicants. Mikhailis extended his marked hand—hesitation flickered, but curiosity shoved it aside.
The moment skin touched bark, the glyphs flared. Lines blazed mint-green, then gold. His tattoo—normally a quiet blue hexagon web—answered with its own flare, brighter than he'd ever seen. Light braided up his wrist in thin filaments before sinking beneath skin.
No words pierced the hall; no chant guided the surge. Instead, a resonant thrum rolled from altar through floorboards, up pillars, all the way into the high vents of the ceiling. Dust drifted loose, sparkling in sunlight.
