Dean rolled his eyes, but some of the tightness in his chest had loosened.

The High Matron turned toward the temple doors and gestured inside. "Shall we begin with the public hall? It is the least alarming part of the building, which makes it a decent place to start."

Dean looked at Arion.

Arion looked back at him, the question silent in his eyes.

Dean hated that he asked without asking.

It gave Dean no excuse to be dramatic.

"Fine," Dean said. "But if anyone chants, I am leaving."

"No chanting," Matron Ilara promised.

"No incense?"

"No incense."

"No sacred oils?"

"Only in the gift shop, and even there I have doubts about the pricing."

Dean paused.

Then looked at Arion. "She has a gift shop."

Arion’s mouth twitched. "Most temples do."

"That is suspiciously modern."

"It funds restoration work," the High Matron said. "And, occasionally, my war against ugly commemorative candles."

Dean stared at her with admiration.

They entered through the open archway, and Dean braced himself for some echo of Palatine’s cold churches, where stone swallowed voices and every statue seemed carved to judge the living for not suffering prettily enough.

Instead, sunlight poured through high glass panels set between ancient columns. The floor was pale stone worn smooth by generations of footsteps, but there were no grim-faced saints staring down, no gilded altar claiming the end of the hall, no robed figures blocking the path.

There were benches along the sides.

A large circular mosaic in the center.

Children’s drawings pinned neatly to a side board.

Dean stopped.

"Are those... fish?"

The High Matron followed his gaze. "From the spring festival. The children draw blessings for the first fishing boats of the season."

Dean stared at the colorful paper fish, most of which looked like confused vegetables with fins.

Arion leaned closer. "Terrifying."

Dean elbowed him.

The High Matron’s eyes gleamed, but she continued with perfect composure. "The original temples began as communal houses. People came here to mark transitions, settle disputes, register oaths, and ask for witnesses when human memory could not be trusted."

Dean looked at the mosaic beneath his feet.

It was not a god.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Only a circle of sea, fields, mountains, and sky woven together in colored stone. At the center, two hands held a flame between them, not worshipping it, not owning it, only keeping it alive together.

Dean did not like how much that affected him.

So he said, "Very subtle. No terrifying deity. Just communal symbolism."

"Exactly," Matron Ilara said.

Dean looked at her sharply.

She smiled. "We do have terrible paintings of founders if you prefer something more unsettling."

"No, thank you."

"I thought not."

They walked slowly through the hall. The attendants remained behind them, one taking notes on the tablet, the other carrying the folder with the grave seriousness of someone trusted with documents rather than mysteries. Hunter followed at a respectful distance with two guards, though Dean noticed they were not being forced outside or corralled into some humiliating waiting area.

That helped too.

Annoyingly.

Matron Ilara showed them the old record wall, where names had once been carved into stone tablets before digital archives made preservation less dramatic and far easier to search. She showed them the side chamber used for marriage registrations, which was bright, simple, and contained exactly zero chains, altars, or ominous curtains.

Dean checked.

Twice.

Arion noticed.

Dean ignored him.

"This is where rural couples still come when they want the temple’s witness alongside the civil contract," the High Matron said. "It carries no legal authority without the state registry. We are very clear on that."

Dean blinked.

"You separate them?"

"With enthusiasm."

"That is..."

"Reasonable?"

"Unexpected."

The High Matron inclined her head. "After Benedict, anything less would be stupidity wearing tradition."

Dean looked away.

Again, no excuse.

Again, accountability.

Very rude.

They moved through a garden corridor next, glass on one side and open arches on the other. Silver-leaf trees grew in square beds along the walkway, their branches shifting in the sea wind. Beyond them, Ylico sloped toward the bright water, modern rooftops scattered between old stone houses, cars moving along narrow streets that had probably been designed when people still believed carts were peak technology.

Dean breathed more easily there.

He did not realize it until Arion’s hand brushed his.

Dean glanced up at him.

Arion said nothing.

Smug internally, obviously.

The High Matron, equally rude, pretended not to notice.

"There is a small library ahead," she said. "We keep copies of old temple rulings there, mostly so young officials can learn how many ways their predecessors embarrassed themselves."

Dean’s interest sharpened. "You keep records of temple mistakes?"

"Of course. Otherwise people repeat them with more confidence."

Dean looked at Arion. "I like her."

"I noticed."

"Do not sound pleased."

"I am not."

"You are radiant with it."

Arion’s scarred brow rose. "Radiant?"

"Internally."

The High Matron led them into the library, which was cool, quiet, and full of shelves, screens, and old manuscripts preserved behind glass. A young attendant at a desk stood so fast he nearly knocked over his chair.

"Sit," Matron Ilara said without looking at him.

He sat.

Dean approved.

There were no hymns. No solemn lecture. No attempt to fold him into some inherited devotion.

Instead, Matron Ilara showed him a digitized record from forty years ago, when the temple council had refused to support a noble claim over local widows’ property, and another from twelve years ago, when Andrea Vale’s family had attempted to take control of temple land used for flood shelters.

Dean leaned closer to the screen.

"She wrote this?" he asked.

"I did," Matron Ilara said.

Dean read the line twice.

Then smiled slowly.

Arion leaned in. "What?"

Dean pointed at the passage. "She called their argument ’a decorative corpse with expensive grammar.’"

Arion looked at the High Matron.

The High Matron folded her hands. "It was accurate."

Dean’s smile widened.

"Oh," he said. "I really like her."

"I am relieved," Arion murmured.

"You should be. I was prepared to hate everything."

"I know."

"Do not say it softly. I am still armed with suspicion."

"Of course."

By the time they reached the tea room, Dean had forgotten to count exits.

He realized it only after they entered.

Then immediately counted them out of spite.

Two doors. Three windows. One garden path visible through the glass.

Fine. Acceptable.

The room was not ceremonial. It had low couches, modern chairs, pale walls, woven cushions, and a table already set with tea, fruit, small sandwiches, and pastries that looked harmless enough to be dangerous. There was no altar. No statue. No incense.

Only an ugly painting of the first temple council on the far wall.

Dean stopped in front of it.

The painting was enormous.

The people in it looked miserable.

One man’s head was too small for his body. A woman in the corner appeared to have three elbows. The central figure had eyes pointing in slightly different political directions.

Dean stared.

Then whispered, "Magnificent."

"I hate it," Matron Ilara said. "But it survived two floods, one attempted theft, and a restoration committee, so now everyone insists it has historical value."

"It does," Dean said. "As a warning."

Arion made a sound suspiciously close to laughter.

Matron Ilara gestured toward the table. "Tea, Your Grace?"

Dean looked at the teapot.

Then at Arion.

Arion reached for a cup before Dean even asked.

"Good husband," Dean muttered.

Arion’s mouth curved as he drank first.

He paused.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Well?"

"It tastes like mint."

"That could mean anything."

Matron Ilara poured Dean’s cup herself. "If I intended to poison a royal guest during his honeymoon, I would choose something more original than mint."

Dean accepted the cup. "That is exactly what a skilled poisoner would say."

"True."