The man who was the head of the Order knelt in front of the altar in his private shrine. Candlelight painted the walls with a haze of gray and gold. Pinpricks of starlight dotted the ink-spill swath of sky that stretched behind the open windows. The man's flawless white robes hung without a wrinkle, and his eyes never left the flame that danced on the single candle. He measured his time on his knees by the slow drip of the wax.
Ciprian came here every night, not to invite the gods in, but to keep one of them out.
His prayers had for a long time been nothing more than routine. He'd even begun to believe that he'd done such a good job keeping his enemies out of the Orderly plane that perhaps people should be praying to him instead. Now he knew he needed to do more.
The balance was shifting. He could feel it in his bones.
It made him want to put some sincerity behind his prayers even though praying was what got him into this mess in the first place.
