The Great Hall was plunged into darkness, lit only by a circle of tall, white candles surrounding the dais where the High Priest and Ambrose stood.
The air smelled of burning sage and heavy, cloying incense. It made Elian's nose itch.
He stood three paces behind Cassian, hidden in the shadows of a pillar. He leaned against the stone, stifling a yawn.
'This is theater,' Elian thought, checking his nails. 'It's a budget production of Macbeth. Look at Ambrose. He's wearing glitter on his eyelids. Who wears glitter to an exorcism?'
[Current LP: 315][Time Until Death: 72 Hours, 45 Minutes.]
Cassian stood rigid, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He hated the High Priest. He hated superstition.
"Get on with it," Cassian's voice cut through the chanting. "If there is a darkness, find it. If not, I have a kingdom to run."
The High Priest, an elderly man who looked like a dehydrated tortoise, glared at the Prince. "Patience, Your Highness. The spirits move in their own time."
