Chapter 16. Blood on Marble

The hall of judgment blazed with a cold, white fire that seemed almost liquid in its purity. Columns of pale flame danced along iron braziers set at regular intervals, casting wavering halos of light and heat against the vaulted ceiling. Though the fires consumed oil so pure that no smoke rose, you could sense a faint, resinous tang on the air—like pine needles crackling on contact with flame—and feel the barely perceptible crackle of power pulsing through every flame’s tongue.

Beneath those roaring torches, the marble floor gleamed as though polished by centuries of worship. Each tile was honed to such a brilliant shine that it reflected the gathered council’s robed silhouettes in perfect, distorted symmetry, as if the hall itself were leaning forward to watch the proceedings. In that gleaming expanse, every footstep rang out like a struck bell, and in the brief echo of each pace one could hear the murmur of anticipation—or perhaps dread—rising from even the smoothest stones.