The Inner Sanctum did not change.
It never did.
Where the imperial court shifted with influence and favor, where alliances formed and fractured like tides beneath a restless moon, the Temple remained—unchanged, unmoved, unyielding—its towering pillars carved from pale stone that seemed untouched by time, its vast halls echoing not with noise, but with a silence so complete that even footsteps felt like an intrusion.
It was not emptiness.
It was control.
At the far end of the chamber, beneath the high-vaulted ceiling where filtered light descended in narrow, deliberate beams, Archon Cassimir Vale stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfectly aligned, his presence neither imposing nor diminished—but absolute.
Before him, a single figure remained kneeling.
Head lowered.
Voice silent.
Waiting.
Cassimir did not look at him immediately.
