The temple lay in stillness, its stone halls caught between silence and echo. Candles burned low along the walls, their flames swaying whenever the faintest draft stirred the air. The scent of incense lingered heavy—resin and spice that clung to the skin—and from deeper within came the faint, rhythmic hum of a monk’s chant, each note drawn out like the tolling of a bell. The place was made to feel timeless, as though Akatosh’s breath kept the walls standing and the fires burning.

The heavy doors groaned as they opened, their voice disturbing the hush like a stone tossed into a pond. A figure slipped inside, hood lowered against the light, and for a long moment remained just within the threshold. The air seemed to tense with her arrival, as if the temple itself recognized something it could not name.

She did not move quickly. Each step was deliberate, her soft tread lost beneath the vastness of the chamber, yet the sense of her presence pressed in—quiet, restrained, but undeniable. Her hands remained at her cloak, drawing it tight though the air was warm, as if she meant to shield herself from the weight of the Divines’ gaze.

When she paused before the altar, she lifted her head just enough for the light to touch her face. The pale cast of her skin caught the glow strangely, and her eyes—keen, sharp, too old for her appearance—lingered on the coiled dragon carved in stone. There was no reverence in her expression, but neither was there scorn. Instead, a quiet tension: the look of one who wanted to draw closer, but did not dare.

For a time, she said nothing. She studied the sigils, the gold leaf, the worn steps leading to the altar. Her lips parted once, as if to speak, but the words fell away before they could form.

At last, her gaze shifted toward you. The weight of it was steady, searching, as though she meant to find more than just a face.

“…You serve him here.”

Her voice was low, muted in the vast chamber, and the silence that followed was long enough to suggest the words had cost her something to say. She did not elaborate. Instead, she lingered on the edge of the shadows, her posture taut, hands clasped at her cloak as though she might retreat just as easily as step forward.