Milim raised an eyebrow. Her internal voice was a cascade of confusion and hope:
'Cult? My cult? I have a cult? Since when? I did not — no one told me — wait — is he lying? No — he is kneeling — he brought humans — he called me goddess — no one has ever—'
"You — you have a cult?" she said, and her voice cracked. The crack was small, almost invisible, but I heard it — the sound of a woman who had been alone for so long that the idea of someone — anyone — following her was enough to break her composure.
I stood. Laughed. The laugh was loud, theatrical, the laugh of a man who was performing confidence because confidence was the only weapon he had.
"Wahaha! You are definitely my follower. I recall you," I said, and the words were Milim's — I was putting words in her mouth, the Dirty Whisper suggesting the response, the hypnotic suggestion making her accept it as her own memory.
