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Summary
“State what you seek.”
The faces of the Sanctarch’s followers are barely visible from beneath their hoods, but their consideration of you is palpable. You take a breath to steady yourself before shouldering it, allowing its weight to lower you to the ground. Your forehead rests on the tile as you lay yourself prostrate before them. The air thickens. The waves turn. Rafayel’s focus simmers across your scalp with the same vicious interest as the summer sun.
“I come seeking the favor of the Stella Ocean,” you respond.
Rafayel reminds the new empress that the Sanctarch didn't always bless their monarchs with a kiss on the hand.