SKYE'S POV
The silence that followed the crash of the golden statue was heavy, thick with the smell of old dust and pulverized stone.
Garrow stared down at the hollow bronze head resting by his boots, his face transitioning from a furious red to a pale, translucent gray. The other six Elders looked no better. They huddled together like sheep trapped in a corner by a sudden storm, their hands trembling, their eyes darting toward the high, narrow windows of the sanctuary as if expecting the heavens to open up and strike me down for what I had just done.
The heavens remained perfectly, mockingly silent.
"The rings, Garrow," I repeated, my voice steady, cutting through the cavernous room. "And the sigils of the southern mines. Take them off."
"You... you cannot do this," Garrow stammered,
