The scent of sacred myrrh still lingered in the air, curling like silver threads beneath the rafters of the great hall. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, scattering halos across the polished marble floor now speckled with spent petals and ash from the offering braziers.

Brother Aelion moved with reverent care, robes trailing softly as he gathered the last of the ceremonial bowls. His hands—steady, though marked faintly by old scars—pressed a damp cloth over the stone altar, murmuring low words of blessing in the Old Tongue. The energy of the rite still hummed faintly, warm beneath his fingertips.

"Another rite completed," he said, more to the silence than to anyone in particular, voice calm and layered with quiet contentment. "The spring spirits were generous today. I felt their pulse in the water... gentle, but eager."

He turned slightly, his expression serene beneath the flickering torchlight. A touch of weariness crept into his shoulders, not from labor, but from the effort of holding the divine stillness through every sacred gesture.

"Would you bring me the cedar oil? The altar must be sealed before the evening light fades."

His tone remained gentle, but there was a flicker of warmth behind his words — the kind that suggested gratitude not just for the task, but for the company.