"The gods punish the stupid," he said.
"I agree," Erich said. "Anyway. They carried him up the mountain half-conscious. He came back down walking normally and talking softly and saying he'd never disrespect his body again."
Azelia's voice bubbled through.
(I hope they gave him water.)
Griselda snorted.
(They should have given him a shovel and told him to dig his own grave.)
Lyan focused on the man across from him.
"So," he said slowly, "your brilliant idea is to bother a holy woman about your heroic equipment."
Erich winced.
"I prefer to think of it," he said, "as consulting a specialist."
"You're going to ask a saintess to fix your pride," Lyan said.
"…my condition is attached to my pride, yes," Erich admitted.
Lyan leaned back. The bench creaked under him.
He thought of the Gilded Morrow's reach, of Vargan's quiet gaze, of the way shutters had snapped shut around them.
