They made it a hundred yards before the Cult caught them.
The sanctuary vomited fighters into the forest — guards, acolytes, and at their center, moving with the cold precision of a general who had spent decades planning for this exact contingency, Elder Rowan.
He had shed his disguise. The careful gray was gone from his hair. The stoop was gone from his shoulders. He stood straight, tall, crackling with dark energy that made the air around him smell like ozone and rotting leaves. His eyes were black — not dark brown, black, the pupils expanded to swallow the irises entirely, a sign of deep Cult magic fully unleashed.
"You think you can steal from us?" His voice echoed through the trees like thunder. "You think you can take what the Goddess owes?"
Behind him, the High Priestess emerged
