C12 Chapter 12

“You’re late.”

A man spoke—the Archon was the title Gayriel had been given. He lounged on a velvet cushioned chair, risen up on a dais at the front of an immense hall. Fat wood pillars lined the path from the double doors, where they entered, to his seat, each carved with a repeating pattern that left Gayriel's eyes crossing. A long golden runner softened their footfalls as they approached