A Silent Sentinel

The dark settled deep into Brambleton tonight, leaving my veiled alcove entirely submerged in rich shadows. I took my position directly behind our consecrated altar, folding both hands neatly in front of my robes. Everything rested under perfect discipline: the bound snail shell gleamed faintly against its sycamore bed, the tiny black notebook remained pinned under its copper tack, and the glass marble cast a cool, curved gleam along the perimeter. Not a single draft stirred the black feather. I did not move a muscle or whisper a sound, simply letting my gaze sweep over the quiet border. It seems my precinct has finally found absolute stillness.