SAGE
The doctor's voice droned on like running water over stone—smooth, practiced, endlessly reverent.
"The goddess watches over this place," he was saying, hands gesturing toward the carvings as though they might rise and bow. "Every ritual, every trial, every drop of blood spilled here has been seen. Recorded."
I nodded when nodding was expected. Tilted my head when he paused, as if inviting awe.
Inside, I was bored.
Not the restless kind of boredom that made you fidget or sigh. No—this was sharper, edged with irritation. I had heard variations of this sermon in a dozen places, spoken by men who believed reverence was the same as understanding.
The goddess, the trials, the sacred balance. Always the same words. Always the same worship dressed up as wisdom.
What occupied me far more than the doctor's monologue was the priest. His eyes had not left me.
