The council room of the temple was a magnificent and ancient room. Its domed ceiling reached far above, covered in faded murals of Asmethan's birth into the world, surrounded by marble-sculpted doves that seemed to stare down in judgment. Incense hung in the air, curling up into the beams of light from braziers down the walls. Lines of white-robed people sat in a circle around a great obsidian table, the temple elders, each face determined by years of duty and dense faith.
High Father Seraphon sat at the head of the table, his position relaxed but firm. His staff rested against the chair to his right—a simple wooden staff, only with cursory etchings to adorn it. The true Holy Staff, generations of Fathers' heirloom, was no longer in his possession. It was already in the boy's possession.
That alone was enough to be unsettling.
The whispers had begun softly, murmurs, but they grew into burning words.
