The temple was heavy with the bitter scent of burning incense, the smoke curling through the air like a mourner's veil. It clung to the cold stone arches, wrapping the sacred space in a suffocating haze. In the centre of the chamber, Ezra's body lay on a raised stone platform, draped in a simple white cloth. His face was uncovered, serene in death, as if he'd merely drifted into a deep sleep. But the faint bruising on his left cheek told a different story—a story of violence, of a life stolen too soon.
Priests knelt in uneven circles around him, their robes pooling on the polished floor. Some wept openly, their prayers trembling with grief as they clutched prayer beads, murmuring pleas for Ezra's soul to find peace in the goddess's embrace. Others sat rigid, their whispers sharp and bitter, their eyes narrowed with judgment.
