The Temple did not welcome.
It did not receive.
It did not acknowledge return as something worthy of recognition.
It simply remained—unchanged, unmoving, absolute—its towering corridors stretching in perfect symmetry beneath high-vaulted ceilings that allowed no warmth to linger, only filtered light that fell in measured lines across pale stone, as though even illumination itself had been disciplined into order.
Silvain walked those corridors without escort.
He did not need one.
He knew every turn, every step, every silent threshold where sound shifted and presence was felt before it was seen. His pace did not falter, his posture did not bend, and yet, within that precision, there existed something subtle—something that would not have been noticed by most, but within these walls, nothing escaped observation.
Eyes followed him.
Not openly.
Not intrusively.
But undeniably.
