The manor of Bishop Truce rose like a sanctified fortress.
Not grand in the radiant way of the cathedral—but imposing, severe.
High walls of pale stone enclosed the estate, etched with holy sigils that glowed faintly even in daylight. Iron gates reinforced with divine inscriptions stood tall and unyielding, guarded by armored knights whose polished breastplates reflected the sky like cold mirrors.
Inside, the grounds were immaculate.
Trimmed hedges shaped into sacred symbols. Marble statues of saints lining the pathways. A central fountain carved in the likeness of the Goddess pouring water from a raised chalice—its flow steady, serene, indifferent.
It was beautiful.
And suffocating.
Divine guards patrolled in steady rotations, boots striking stone in disciplined rhythm. Their expressions were stern, but beneath the discipline lingered something uglier—something casual and familiar.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
The door was opened.
