The Holy Brights, garbed in robes of white satin, prepared the altar for sacrifice. The bright, noon-hour Sun beamed into the open roof of the Temple, reflecting off smooth walls and delicate silver trim. Silver urns on pedestals against the walls glimmered with a near-blinding light. Unlit lanterns hugged the hallways; the white floor had been recently swept.
The Sun felt especially hot against Scire's skin, bright in anticipation of the offering. Its light made his flesh glow white-yellow with strength. He hardened his body, armoring himself with the powers of the heavens. There would be no complications today--even Aro never stormed the Temple. The hardening was habitual; pale light glimmered across his body, seeping through the fibers of his clothes. Light radiated from the other Brights as well, Regals who stood at the far end of the room, murmuring one to another. When the Sun tendered so much power, it was a sin to waste it.
Scire slid the heavy gold sleeves of his uniform over his arms and cinched the coat's torso around his waist. Once his gloves were in place, he pulled the white, gold-laced hood over his hair and face. The warm material hid his features, though slits had been cut for his eyes and nose. Completely covered, he could no longer draw energy from the Sun, but his solar stores brimmed with its power. Even without the light, his strength would hold for several hours.
Taking a long-handled axe from a pedestal to his right, he grasped it