The Sanctum checkpoint was nothing more than a squat, single-story stone building hunkered down just inside the city gates. No windows to allow for air circulation. No sacred ornaments. There was only a heavy teak door left wide open, and three grey-robed shrine guards inside—one assigned to frisking, one standing watch with a hand on his sword hilt, and one busy scribbling on a wooden table scarred by thousands of dagger gouges.
Roland stepped into the stuffy room, which reeked of aged parchment and cold sweat, with his posture as calm as still water. Behind him, Rianor, Dom, Naya, Orva, and Adul followed closely, each hoisting or dragging their luggage from the carriage.
The guard in charge of inspection—a stocky man with a thin beard and eyes that had spent too much time peeling back the lies of travelers—immediately pointed his chin toward the long table in the center of the room.
"Pile all your belongings. On the table. Now."
