Brother Halven requested sanctuary before anyone could accuse him.
That was not innocence.
That was timing.
The Church sanctuary chamber beneath Astral Zenith's theology annex looked built to make cowardice sound holy. White stone. Gold script. Seven candles. A pale circle wide enough for one penitent and narrow enough to remind everyone else that mercy could be reserved by architecture.
Halven stood inside the circle.
Not kneeling.
Interesting.
Sanctuary was supposed to make people smaller.
That was its design. Kneel, confess, receive mercy through a structure older than the person asking for it. A room like this did not need chains because architecture had already decided where guilt should stand.
Halven had stepped into that design and refused the posture.
That mattered.
Men who feared punishment knelt. Men who trusted protection stood. Men who wanted mercy as a wall waited for everyone else to break against sacred language.
Halven was waiting.
