The Hall of Grace looked less like it was built—it seemed as though it was sung into being.
Its walls glowed with veins of crystal and breath-light stone, where the prayers of thousands echoed without sound.
No one entered it without purpose.
No one left it unchanged.
At the far end, beneath a ceiling that curved like the inside of a chalice, the Blind Priestess sat upon a dais of woven silverroot, legs folded beneath her.
A silk-white blindfold covered her eyes, luminous and impossibly clean despite the crimson tears that slipped from beneath it.
She glowed faintly. Not with magic. Not with sorcery. But with divinity.
And tonight, she wept.
Seven figures stood before her—each a towering presence within the Sanctum of Light. Robed, armored, or crowned in the golden sigils of their station.
Inquisitors. Lightbearers. Archdeacons.
