Seraphina's patience cracked quietly, which made it more dangerous than any miracle.
Saintesses were taught patience. Seraphina was beginning to learn that patience could become complicity.
Seraphina Seraphel did not drag me to the Healing Hall.
Dragging would have been undignified.
Instead, she walked beside me with perfect saintess posture, gentle light curled around her fingers, and the calm expression of a girl mentally preparing to commit socially acceptable violence if I tried to escape.
Worse, she had witnesses.
Ren on my left, carrying the bloodied towel.
Aiden following two steps behind, guilt and confusion wrestling across his face.
Liora behind him, silent and angry in the way storms were silent before deciding whether roofs deserved mercy.
Lucien Drakeveil had not followed.
Draven Kaelthar had not either.
Both had seen enough. That mattered.
Professor Malcris had seen too much. That mattered more.
My shoulder throbbed in time with the steps.
