Zephyr opened the communion space at midnight.
He chose the hour deliberately — when his divine sense was sharpest, when the FP drain was lowest, when the city below slept and its faith hummed at the quiet, steady frequency of unconscious belief. Two million voices dreaming. The baseline static of a god's existence.
He constructed the communion environment from memory: a room. Stone walls. A table. Two chairs. No windows. No doors. The aesthetic of function — the same design philosophy he'd imposed on the Iron Citadel, the Ashwall, the Grand Cathedral. Everything served a purpose. Nothing existed for display.
It was, he realized, a mistake. But he didn't have time to reconstruct it.
The Arbiter arrived.
