PREVIEW

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It was too quiet.

Not the reverent kind of quiet that sanctuaries promised. No.

This was the quiet of coiled tension, like a bowstring drawn too tight—ready to snap.

High Priest Caldric stood beneath the great spire of the Holy Temple, arms raised as morning light filtered through the stained-glass ceiling. The mosaic of gods painted the floor in holy colors—reds, golds, and blood.

But even the gods seemed to look away t ...

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