The sun had just begun its slow climb over the horizon, casting golden threads of light across the stone walls and ivy-laced pillars of the cathedral grounds. The quiet morning air was brisk, carrying the faint scent of dew and incense—a strange but calming combination.
Luke and Ilyrana didn't speak much as they left the sanctum. Their steps were quiet, their thoughts heavier than the bags they were about to retrieve. After all that had just transpired—talks of fate, prophecy, the will of God, and their place in a world tilting ever closer toward chaos—there wasn't much left to say just yet. Not until they could breathe, to wrap their minds around it all.
Their feet brought them back to the guest quarters, a modest wing of the castle where warm wooden doors lined a short corridor of flagstone. It was still early enough that the hallways were empty, save for the occasional sleepy monk making their morning rounds.
