The hooves of warhorses pounded against the stony path as the elders.and temple guards rode hard for the Holy Temple. Their temple cloaks streamed behind them, catching the gray light of morning, and the sharp smell of ash still hung heavy in the air from the last attack.
Luther rode just beside Father Seraphon. The boy's head was lowered, his hood shadowing most of his face. He kept his gaze stubbornly on the ground, watching dirt fly beneath the horse's hooves rather than meeting the Father's eyes.
Seraphon noticed.
"You're quiet," the Father said in his calm, patient tone. "Are you nervous?"
Luther looked up sharply, meeting the man's gaze. He wanted to laugh—if the Father only knew what was really turning over in his mind. But he couldn't let that slip. So instead, he plastered on his familiar sarcasm.
