( Somewhere a very long way from Zenith...)
The temple had been dead for four hundred years before they arrived, which Greed considered a personal inconvenience.
"Nothing." He drove a hand through what remained of an altar and watched the pieces fall through the floor into whatever was underneath it. "Fifteen years. Fifteen years of nothing, in a realm that smells like old paper."
Pride did not answer.
He was standing perfectly still in the centre of the ruined hall with his head tilted slightly, the way a man stands when he has heard a sound that has not repeated.
"Are you listening to me."
"No."
Greed turned. "Then what."
Pride raised one hand.
Something moved across his palm. Not light. The absence of it, arranged in a line, turning slowly.
"Two days ago," he said, "something opened."
"Opened."
