Gold-embroidered robes swept lightly across the marble as the High Priest made his way through the hall. He had spent the last several minutes taking slow, measured breaths, trying to smooth out the lingering agitation in his chest after his strange, unsettling meeting with Philia earlier. The young omega had smiled so sweetly, yet the brief look in his eyes had left a distinct, chilly weight behind the High Priest's ribs.
Shaking his head slightly, the old holy man adjusted the heavy drape over his shoulders and turned down the quiet eastern wing, heading toward Iryna's private quarters to check on her condition.
He had held his title for more decades than he cared to count. He had watched seasons change, treaties dissolve, and generations of nobles grow from crying infants into greedy, plotting politicians. Through it all, his golden rule had always been absolute: Do not meddle.
