Deacon kept his forehead pressed against the stone floor. The surface was rough, biting into his skin, but he didn't move.
His knees dug into the ash scattered across the chamber, and the dust clung to his clothes, coating them in a dull gray film that scratched against his skin every time he shifted the smallest bit.
He stayed as still as he could, trying to make himself smaller, trying not to stand out like a child might hide in the corner of a room.
The gods' voices had faded minutes ago, but their echo still clung to the air. They were gone in sound but not in weight.
Deacon could feel them in his chest, pressing down on every breath until it hurt to inhale. He thought if he tried to breathe too deeply, his ribs might snap under the pressure.
Even the air tasted heavy, like it carried the edge of iron and smoke with it, reminding him that he didn't belong here in the first place.
