After a few hours, the clearing fell quiet as the Deacon arrived.
He didn't walk in fast or slow—just steady like someone who had done this too many times to be surprised.
His robe was deep red with black trim, different from the others. The hood covered his face fully.
Only the outline of his jaw was visible, and even that looked strange, like it wasn't shaped right for a normal human.
Everyone stopped when he stepped past the torches.
The chanting halted.
The white-robed cultists dropped to their knees without a word. The black-cloaked mercenaries didn't kneel, but they froze in place. Eyes forward. Weapons steady.
No one spoke.
The Deacon walked forward without looking left or right. His hands were covered in gloves made of dark leather. In them, he held the staff.
It wasn't large or glowing with power. Just simple, old, made of some dark material that looked like wood but didn't reflect light at all. At the top, a round gem pulsed dimly.
