As Levan left Melyn to tend to his wife, he made his way back to the Dawn Gallery, where the priest and wardens were already assembled.
It was a ritual he had witnessed countless times to the point that the rhythm of it had long ceased to move him; the chants, the faint scent of incense, the low murmur of prayer. It was all so familiar that they blurred into one indistinguishable sound.
Still, he stood there, arms crossed, and watched everything. The light that filtered through the stained glass scattered over the floor in fractured hues, painting his boots in shifting gold and red. Somewhere within that calm, he thought of her again.
The way she looked so scared as she watched her darkened veins; the way she fumbled nervously when their eyes met.
