The light that filtered into the chamber was dim—filtered through red-stained glass, casting long shadows on the stone floor. Incense burned slowly near the altar, leaving the air warm and heavy.
Charlotte sat across from Father Orthran, her small hands wrapped around a still-warm cup of herbal tea she hadn't touched.
The office, nestled deep in the lower sanctum of the Holy Cathedral, had once felt safe. Familiar.
Now, it felt... quiet but not peaceful.
She didn't speak at first. Neither did he.
Orthran looked older today.
He always had white hair, always carried the gravity of age—but today, his posture was heavier, his expression more distant. His robes were folded clean, but his hands trembled faintly as he turned the pages of a report he wasn't truly reading.
Charlotte looked at him, her voice soft.
"You should rest."
Orthran smiled gently.
"And leave everything in someone else's hands? I can't do that—not after everything that's happened."
