[Holy Temple—Inner Courtyard | Morning Light]
It was too quiet.
Not the reverent kind of quiet that sanctuaries promised. No.
This was the quiet of coiled tension, like a bowstring drawn too tight—ready to snap.
High Priest Caldric stood beneath the great spire of the Holy Temple, arms raised as morning light filtered through the stained-glass ceiling. The mosaic of gods painted the floor in holy colors—reds, golds, and blood.
But even the gods seemed to look away today.
Caldric's lips moved, mumbling ceremonial scripture under his breath. But his eyes weren't closed in prayer.
They were open.
Fixed.
Watching the priest kneeling before him, trembling under the weight of expectation and fear.
"You understand your task, don't you, Brother Elian?" Caldric's voice was soft. Too soft. Like silk wrapped around a knife.
