The high priestess motioned for the approach.
The silence of the cathedral had shifted. It was no longer the heavy, expectant quiet of a tomb, but a living, vibrating hum of shared history.
Two attendants stepped forward, bearing an ornate chalice carved from a single block of eternal ice. It did not melt; it did not sweat. Within it sloshed Winter's Draught, a mead so pale it was almost clear, infused with frost-herbs that had never seen the sun.
Soren took the cup first. His hands, though large and steady, moved with a reverence that bordered on fear. He held the rim to Eris's white-painted lips.
"From my hand to your lips," he murmured, the traditional words sounding like a vow. "What sustains me, sustains you."
