The moment the heavy teak doors of the Teulibrary whispered shut, Saintess Myria inhaled, then released a long, careful breath—as if she could exhale every flutter racing in her chest. The corridor beyond the reading hall was hushed, lit only by slender moon-lamps clinging to living pillars. Their silver glow usually soothed her; tonight it painted every vine and rune in strange, inviting colors.
She pressed her palms together in front of her waist, the ritual gesture steadying the slight tremor in her fingertips. Only moments earlier she had faced Prince Mikhailis with perfect composure, telling him in her most measured temple voice, "You must be tired, Your Highness. Shall we pause here for today? The shrine's atmosphere can be overwhelming for newcomers."
