Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps echoed in the dimly lit, narrow corridor, carrying far into the silence, utterly extinguished.
Klein stood straight, following the middle-aged priest at a measured pace, asking no questions, making no small talk, his demeanor as still as a windless lake.
Passing through the heavily guarded passage, the priest unlocked a secret door with a key, pointing to the downward stone steps:
"To the left of the crossroads is the Chanis Gate."
"May the goddess protect you." Klein tapped his chest four times, outlining the "shape" of a crimson moon.
Secular customs were for secular people, religious rituals for religious people.
"Praise the goddess." The priest returned the gesture.
Klein said nothing more, continuing down the stone steps, guided by the elegant gas lamp
