Riska's touch, he noted silently. Count, not complain. Always the same. He let out a quiet breath. Pressure, not chaos. That's how she keeps them alive.
Moving on, he reached the chapel steps. The candles there burned low, but steady. This was the kind of light that belonged to old prayers rather than ceremonies. The air was thick with the smell of melted wax and dust. A messenger knelt by the wall, whispering a fast prayer—one of habit, not faith—then stood and continued up the stairs, boots hitting the stone with hurried grace.
Mikhailis pressed his hand against the railing. The wood felt smooth from decades of touch, yet tonight, it seemed colder. He looked after the messenger, his ears catching fragments of hurried speech.
