The air in the High Church's inner sanctum was colder than the winter outside, as though the ancient stones themselves had drawn breath and held it. The vast chamber—reserved for only the most sacred rites—had been cleared of all but the essential:
the high altar of white marble veined with gold, the eternal flame burning in its crystal basin, and a single elevated chair of dark oak that had once belonged to the first High pope. Lucifer sat there now, motionless, robes of indigo and living fire pooled around him like spilled night.
The three Archdukes entered together, yet each step seemed to cost them something.
Valorian of the Iron North led, his massive frame clad in bear-fur and steel, the scars of a hundred battles etched across his weathered face. Behind him came Marcellus of the Sapphire Coast, lean and elegant in sea-green silk, rings glinting on every finger. Last walked Draven of the Shadow Marches, cloaked in black, his presence somehow dimming the light around him.
