Myra was a wreck.
The young woman, her black robe disheveled, her violet eyes red-rimmed, her hands clasped in her lap, was not composed. She was not the serene, holy priestess who healed the sick and blessed the faithful. She was a woman who had been fingered to orgasm in a garden, who had pissed herself against a tree, who had been threatened with sexual violence in front of orphans.
And now she sat across from the Paladin, who was asking questions.
"Priestess Myra," the Paladin said. His voice was controlled. Barely. The 'I-am-asking-a-simple-question' tone that was anything but simple. "I know you must have been overwhelmed. That is a devil. A monster. You are going to make sure that everyone knows the real face of the grandson of the Catorian family who has joined hands with the demon."
The word 'demon' was emphasized. Spat. The 'this-is-heresy' emphasis that carried the weight of the Holy Church's judgment.
