Seirion stood motionless before the altar, his back rigid and his fists clenched. It was strange to feel nerves crawling across his skin, centuries had passed since he last spoke with any of the gods, and yet here he was, gathering words he did not know if anyone would hear.
The silence stretched, dense and heavy, until the air shifted. The light filtering through the cracked ceiling bent as if being drawn toward the altar, and suddenly, it released a dry sound.
And then, a god appeared.
Maloren, God of Judgment, emerged from the shadows as though he had been standing there all along. His figure first outlined itself in silver flashes, like chalk lines in the air, and then took on solid form.
His skin was pale as marble, and his straight black hair fell to his waist, framing a face of fine angles, beautiful and stern at once. His gray eyes, cold as river stone, seemed to see through everything with the patient calm of one who had spent ages judging the world.
