Luther turned toward the sound of heavy boots and clinking chains, half-expecting Mariana or some poor soul sent to remind him of his prayers again.
Instead, sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the corridor in blood-red and gold. The glow framed a small procession of guards marching forward—and in their center walked Harold.
Or rather, what was left of him.
The temple's former golden apprentice looked more like a tattered parchment than a man. His white robes were burnt at the edges, his wrists bound with a strip of dull silver cloth that shimmered faintly with sealing runes. Yet somehow, he managed to walk like a priest on parade—head high, chin lifted, eyes full of that same nauseating confidence he'd always worn like perfume.
Luther blinked once.
"Ah," He murmured, tilting his head. "The temple's golden boy finally lost his shine."
What was his name again?
Oh... right!
Harold.
