The High Temple did not raise its voice.
It never did.
Sunlight filtered through tall stained windows, casting colored shadows across the polished stone floor of the council chamber. Incense burned low, its scent heavy but restrained. The priests seated along the crescent table spoke in measured tones, their robes immaculate, their expressions schooled into calm concern.
At the center of the table lay Silvain's report.
It had been copied twice. Annotated once.
"That the Empress approved the release of delayed military relief is… unfortunate," one elder said, fingers steepled. "It undermines the narrative of restraint we have cultivated."
Another priest adjusted his rings thoughtfully. "It was approved because the Princess framed it as necessity, not ambition."
A third voice—older, quieter—interjected. "And because she was correct."
Silence followed.
That admission sat poorly in the chamber.
