The disciples' chant thinned like the dying breath of a storm, leaving the chamber raw and humming. Asher stayed low, letting Raymam's borrowed gait carry him among the throng as they dispersed—some stumbling, some being helped, all hollowed by what they'd given. He let them pass, let the crowd smear over him like water, and when the last of the changed staggered away he drew one careful step closer to the dais.
He did not rush. The sanctum had teeth; haste would get them caught. Instead he moved with the same measured grace he used in combat: patient, economical, every motion rehearsed until surprise became inevitable. His ears catalogued the soft creak of chains, the whisper of robes, the distant drip of blood into unseen basins. His fingers brushed the inside of his cloak where the scythe rested—an old weight, a familiar hunger—but he kept it still. For now, knowledge mattered more than bloodshed.
