[Temple of Aetherion—The High Sanctum, Noon Shadows]
The Temple of Aetherion was silent.
Too silent.
The kind of silence that didn't happen naturally.It was curated. Curated like fine wine—Filtered through reverence. Bottled with fear.Like someone had swept even the echoes under the marble floor and whispered, "Don't make a sound unless you bleed divinity."
But Silas Rynthall was not divine.
He was worse.
He sat alone at the end of the sacred hall—legs crossed, robe pristine and sharp as a scythe's edge, body coiled with the stillness of a predator who had already hunted, killed, and come back for seconds.
He didn't fidget. He didn't pace. He simply stared.
Like the kind of man who could burn your temple to the ground and make you say thank you for the warmth.
Across from him, wrapped in a thousand layers of ceremonial white and smug serenity, sat High Priest Caldris. He was robed like humility incarnate, but his smile had the oily sheen of rot beneath gold leaf.
