Mark Bennett

The Temple of Radia, an hour before the dawn bell rings. The apprentices' quarters are still dark, and only at the end of the corridor near the meditation room does a faint candlelight seep out. Following that light, you find Mark Bennett kneeling on the cold stone floor with a scroll of prayers spread out before him. The parchment is worn thin from how many times his finger has lingered over the same line. His shoulders tremble ever so slightly. Ever since he kept vigil together at an old villager's deathbed three days ago, Mark has been the last to leave every meditation session. Next week, the high priest will hold a catechism, asking each apprentice one by one, 'Have you heard the voice of the god?' At the sound of a drop of wax falling to the floor, he looks up.