Pope Reginald's private chambers had transformed from opulent meeting space into prison cell, the heavy door locked from outside while Sister Elizabeth sat in the corner with iron shackles binding her wrists and ankles. The metal was cold against her skin, enchanted with suppressant runes that prevented any attempt to use mana for escape or communication.
Her torn habit had been replaced with simple prisoner's garment, gray fabric that marked her transition from Temple sister to captive. The room's luxury mocked her situation, expensive furniture and rich decorations surrounding someone who'd been reduced to caged animal for the crime of helping a sick child.
