The chamber was carved from stone older than history, bathed in a pale golden light that did not flicker, yet never seemed warm.
Incense smoke curled lazily in the air, painting divine patterns only the faithful could decipher. The Sanctum of Light called it the Hall of Grace, though nothing about it was graceful tonight.
At the center, a man stood with his arms crossed and a deep scar running across his lips like a stitched insult from the gods.
He bore the armor of the Inquisition, scorched and marked with the insignia of the Demon Subjugation Corps. His eyes were glassy from travel, sleepless nights and things no mortal should see.
Across from him, the woman carved.
She sat upon a raised dais, her legs folded beneath her like a spirit from a forgotten age. A silk-white blindfold wrapped gently across her eyes, covering what once saw too much.
