The temple corridor stretched before Father Rohan like the nave of a cathedral submerged in water. The hour was that strange moment between night and dawn.
The sky beyond the high, arched windows shifting from black to charcoal to the faintest wash of indigo, not yet gold, not yet light, but no longer entirely dark. Torches still burned in their iron sconces along the stone walls, but it looked less bright than before.
The screams that had torn through these halls hours ago still seemed to echo faintly in the stone.
Every footstep Rohan took was wet and rasping against the cold floor. Every breath he exhaled curled faintly in the air before dissipating.
The corridor was wide. Grand, even, designed to accommodate processions of priests and dignitaries. And yet it felt impossibly narrow compared to the sky.
