The high temple of Iondora had occasionally held so many in its inner sanctum every time the prophecy was revealed.
Nobles in velvet and mail pressed against merchants in trade leathers, temple guards in polished bronze stood shoulder to shoulder with kitchen servants who had abandoned their hearths for this.
Everywhere, incense, sweat, the musk of fear that no amount of myrrh could mask.
Ruby stood upon the dais, her simple white robes blending in the gilded backdrop of a thousand years of accumulated glory.
She had not slept. The circles beneath her eyes were purple as bruises, her lips cracked from dehydration, yet her voice carried without strain, amplified by something that was not acoustics.
"The waters of fate run clear in these coming months," she began, and the crowd exhaled as one, relieved by the familiar cadence of blessing. A young mother clutched her infant tighter. An old soldier touched the amulet at his throat.
