The sanctum doors burst inward.
Marcellus was the first through, golden light pouring from his palms and driving back the shadows gathered along the corridor walls. Julius kept pace beside him, sword raised, his face set and unreadable. Evelina followed a step behind, her crimson eyes sweeping the sanctum the moment it came into view.
The chamber beyond was vast, circular, and ancient.
Older than the cathedral built around it, older, perhaps, than the city itself. Its walls were carved from black stone that seemed to swallow light whole, while the floor bore a great sunburst worked in gold, its surface worn smooth by generations of kneeling priests.
At the heart of that sunburst stood a ring of robed figures gathered around an altar.
The High Council.
