The night air was cold, damp with the weight of anticipation. Outside the temple gates, the elders stood in a half-circle, their robes rustling as the wind carried whispers through the trees. It was almost dawn. The faintest line of silver brushed the horizon, but the temple doors had remained firmly sealed.
The knights had long since dismounted. Their horses lay curled on the ground, their reins slack, some snorting in their sleep. The men themselves sat cross-legged or leaning against their mounts, exhaustion pulling at their eyes. Still, none dared leave. Their gazes lingered on the great doors, waiting for a sign.
At the center of it all, Father Seraphon sat in lotus form, his staff resting across his lap. His face was serene, though the others around him shifted with unease.
"It has been too long," muttered one elder, wringing his hands. "No mortal could endure the holy chamber for such hours without—"
