When we reached the temple, the cool morning haze mingled with the scent of incense and damp stone. Immediately, I noticed a cluster of priests gathered in hushed urgency around the entrance.
Their solemn faces and furtive glances betrayed that something was amiss. I approached one of them and demanded sharply, "What is happening here?"
The priest turned toward me with a respectful nod, replying, "Greetings, Your Grace," in a tone equal parts deference and confusion.
Almost simultaneously, the other priests—watchful and silent—turned their heads and echoed the greeting with subdued voices.
I frowned and pressed further, "Then?" but received no immediate answer; only silence. It was obvious—the answer lay not in words, but in the unspoken order issued by the High Priest himself.
Without wasting a moment, I dashed into the temple's shadowed interior, my breath quickening with anxiety. I needed answers, and I intended to confront the source.
