The next day, Eamon found himself standing outside a grand estate, the towering gates of the politician's house casting long shadows over the cobblestone path.
The High Priest stood beside him, his posture rigid, his face as impassive as always.
The grandeur of the building loomed before them, its high walls and polished windows glinting in the fading light of the evening.
It was a stark contrast to the dim, cloistered halls of the church where Eamon had spent his life, but there was no time to take in the surroundings. His duty called.
The politician, a stout man with a wide smile that never reached his eyes, greeted them at the door. His clothes were immaculate, his home even more so, with the faint scent of incense already lingering in the air.
Eamon caught a glimpse of the High Priest exchanging a few words with the man—polite pleasantries about the state of the country, the responsibilities of the church, and the importance of charity.
