Silence
That was all Luther could hear.
But...
"The saint is here! The saint has arrived!"
The voice tore through the silence like a trumpet blast, sharp and desperate.
Luther's eyes snapped open. His lungs heaved like he had been drowning, and his hands instinctively clawed at his chest. For one long, dizzy moment, he thought he was still trapped in the chaos of the temple—fire, corrupted magic, and screams—but no. This was different. His hands… they weren't burned or bloody. They were clean.
Too clean.
He stared at his fingers, realizing they were covered in fabric he didn't recognize. A robe—white, with black inner layers, traced with golden embroidery that shimmered faintly, as though alive. His arms shook as he followed the robe down to the ground, the hem brushing the marble floor of a dais.
And then he noticed the weight.
