A few hours later, the afternoon sun beat down on the main courtyard of the Thompson estate. The air was warm and still, filled with the scent of dust and blooming jasmine. But the usual quiet hum of the household was broken by a strange, rhythmic sound.
Chanting. The shaking of bells. The heavy thud of staffs on stone.
A procession entered the gates.
At the head was a man dressed in long, flowing robes of white and gold silk. He had a long gray beard that reached his chest and carried a tall wooden staff topped with a large, clear crystal. He walked with a solemn, measured gait. Behind him walked four acolytes in simpler white robes, swinging brass censers that filled the air with thick, sweet, cloying smoke. They chanted in a low, resonant language that sounded ancient and mysterious.
