Ollie's statement hit with the subtlety of a mace to the face. Sir Padraig's wine cup froze halfway to his lips, the dark liquid sloshing against the rim as his hand began to tremble. He set it down with a wooden clunk, then inhaled a sharp hiss of breath through clenched teeth.
"Thorryn," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. His other hand found Seren's under the table, gripping so tightly that her knuckles whitened. The lanky knight's weathered face had gone pale, and he leaned heavily against his wife's shoulder as the implications settled over him like a cold fog.
Around the table, the others wore similar expressions of shock and disbelief as they tried to reconcile the story they were hearing from Liam and Sir Ollie with the image they had of the mild young priest.
