The room Luther had been imprisoned in retained the pungent aroma of herbs and clean linen. The stone walls etched weak prayers, yet to him it was merely a gilded cage. He slumped against the edge of the large bed, clad now in a white plain shirt and black trousers in place of the bloodied garments he had burned before.
The fabric was soft, expensive even, but Luther tugged at the collar as if it was constricting him.
"Better than this do prisoners get," he grumbled, lying back in the bed. "At least they are allowed to leave after a while."
The Holy Staff, lying motionless against the wall, glowed softly in response. Its surface rippled with a silvery light, like the sheen on sunlight in water.
Luther seethed at it, unflinching. "Don't even think about it with me. You glow whenever I'm not happy, like that's ever going to make a difference. What am I supposed to do? Hug you? Whisper secrets in your ear? Think again."
The staff throbbed once, faintly, like a breath.
