The double meaning was invisible to the crowd. Visible to Myra.
'Holy water. Stuffing her. Holy energy.'
The words, the crude, veiled, 'I-am-going-to-fuck-you-and-call-it-holy' meaning, hit Myra like a train. Her violet eyes widened. Her face, already pale, went white. Her body, already trembling, shook harder.
'He is going to— in front of everyone— he is asking the Paladin to—'
"Indeed!" the Paladin said. The word came out fast. Eager. The 'yes-please-take-her' response of a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. "You should take her. You should. Take her."
The Paladin's enthusiasm was survival instinct. The 'give-him-what-he-wants-and-maybe-he-will-leave' desperation that made the old man throw his own priestess to the wolf.
Myra turned to the Paladin. The 'you-are-giving-me-to-him' shock. The 'you-are-supposed-to-protect-me' betrayal. The 'you-are-the-Paladin-and-you-are-handing-me-over' devastation.
"Wait, no—" she started. "Paladin—"
