The Temple doors closed behind them with a sound that felt final.
It was not loud. Not dramatic. No echo chased the heavy wood as it sealed the space from the city beyond. The sound was contained, deliberate—like a decision already made.
Isolde slowed her steps instinctively.
The Inner Sanctum was colder than the outer halls. The stone beneath her boots had been polished to a dull sheen by centuries of kneeling, pacing, waiting. Gold inlays traced prayers into the floor itself, each line a verse, each verse a command. High pillars rose toward a vaulted ceiling where light filtered down through narrow slits of stained glass, coloring the air in restrained hues of amber and blue.
No warmth lived here.
This was not a place designed to comfort the faithful.
It was designed to correct them.
