The cathedral breathed again—not in how lungs filled or air moved, but in a deep, slow motion that pressed through the walls like a memory exhaling, like a pressure finally loosening after holding itself too long.
It wasn't breathed in the way mortals understood. It was intentional; it was an ancient rhythm. It was the sound of something old and sacred relaxing back into place.
High above the throne, the suspended glass organs dimmed, their strange, liquid-like glow fading into themselves as if retreating to sleep.
The shifting light that had danced through the stained glass stopped pulsing.
The cathedral's eyes, if they could be called that, blinked once—then again—before falling still, the afterimage lingering in the thick air like smoke that didn't fade.
Deacon still knelt where he had appeared—his position unchanged, his silhouette sharp against the quiet gloom of the cathedral's ribbed floor.
