In the temple's dimply lit room, the flickering lights casts eerie shadows over the walls adorned with spells. The ceiling was dominated by a star-shaped structure that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Seated in a cushioned wooden chair was an elderly man, his long white beard brushing against his chest, and his eyes-one silver and the other completely white-reflecting the weight of nearly a century of life.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and raspy, as though each word dragged itself through a lifetime of coughs and weariness. "The lady-in-waiting of Lady Seraphine was the target. It doesn't make any sense."
Before him stood Ancillin, dressed in his usual princely attire, his cloak bearing the symbol of a half-moon with rays radiating outward. The contrast between the High Sanctifier's ancient presence and Ancillin's youthful vigor was stark.
