Duce Merian, the Herems and I are being escorted by a troop of bastion guards, both in our forefront and our rear, with us safe in between. The massive hallways resound with the percussion of clomping boots, a hard-beat crescendo. A page was sent to each of our bedchambers, a summoning from the supreme Ecclesia itself. My attendants practically had me ripped from my bed, bathed, and ornamented in glimmering fabrics.
Though I am faring quite grandly compared to the bleary-eyed Herems. They are washed, well-groomed and attired in stately drapes befitting their nobility. It still cannot hide their lethargic state: their slumped shoulders, sluggish gait, the heavy burden their eyes bear.
I look at Solaris beside me. Two braids plaited in a row on the flanks of his head, the rest pulled down into a low ponytail. He sucks in another, slow-drawn yawn, eyes heavy-lidded.
"Trouble sleeping, my son?"
