The congregation was silent. You could almost hear the weight of judgment in the air — thick, cold, and choking. Every gaze was fixed on Harold, bound by glowing chains that shimmered faintly with divine light. Even breathing too loudly might have been considered blasphemy in that hall.
Elder Nimo's voice broke through, sharp and clipped.
"Is this a chamber for discipline," he asked dryly, "or for marital discussions?"
A low chuckle ran through the rows, but Harold only smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching like he found the question amusing. "Oh, discipline will come, Elder," he said, his tone dripping with mock reverence. "But not from you self-righteous fossils. My punishment," he grinned wider, "will be given by them."
He jerked his bound hands upward, gesturing toward the seven elders seated above. "Those old geezers who think they can play gods."
The entire room stiffened. Even Luther had to admit — the man had guts.
