The Inquisitor rode through dusk like a man fleeing his own shadow.
Wind bit through his robes, tearing at the crimson banners that hung limp from the haft of his staff.
The horse beneath him snorted clouds of steam; its hooves struck the road with dull, rhythmic thunder. Yet no sound could drown the echo in his head — the sound of his blade melting in the Saintess's presence, the hiss of sanctified silver turned to nothing beneath the heretic's hand.
He caught the sword with his bare flesh, Seraphel thought, fingers tightening on the reins until the leather creaked. And the light obeyed him.
The shame had not left since that moment. It burned colder than fire, a wound to pride deeper than steel. His hand, though wrapped in gauze and blessed oils, still stung.
