The Cardinal's voice, already thin with frustration, rose into a sharp, trembling pitch.
"What you're doing goes against the Holy Order!" he barked, spittle flashing under the dying torchlight.
Van Dijk turned his gaze toward him with a look that was neither amused nor angry—merely tired. A wolf regarding a barking dog.
"You know, Clement," Van Dijk said, his voice low, steady as the slow pull of a blade from its sheath, "I was here when your 'Order' was still nothing but a group of ragged preachers, begging scraps in the alleys of Lufondal."
He took a step forward.
Mot said nothing—did nothing. He only watched.
"I was here," Van Dijk continued, "when you were little more than a cult, pulling desperate fools into your promises of the Four Gods' mercy. I was here when the city branded you heretics."
Another step. Closer. The chains clinked faintly at his ankles, but they no longer restrained him.
"I was here," Van Dijk whispered, "seven hundred years ago."
