![]() ![]() Awn is on her knees beside it, cradling its head, holding pressure as best she can. The fifth ancillary is wounded, kneeling in a spreading puddle of blood before the altar. They’ve fanned out, an ancillary placing itself at each corner of the room with perfect military precision. There are six of them in the sanctuary and the Divine recognizes them all. ![]() The kind of breathing that’s only gasps, each one a demand for another second of life, a refusal of death as stark as a storm siren. Her step over the threshold carries her five years into the past blood dripped and smeared across the sacred stones, someone curled around a belly wound, junior priests shouting in shaking voices for water and linens. The Divine is shaken awake by a whimpering acolyte and rushed through the hot crowded dark to the temple. It’s just like the old days, the bad days. ![]()
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