Request

The Cardinal's voice, already thin with frustration, rose into a sharp, trembling pitch.

"What you're doing goes against the Holy Order!" he barked, spittle flashing under the dying torchlight.

Van Dijk turned his gaze toward him with a look that was neither amused nor angry—merely tired. A wolf regarding a barking dog.

"You know, Clement," Van Dijk said, his voice low, steady as the slow pull of a blade from its sheath, "I was here when your 'Order' was still nothing but a group of ragged preachers, begging scraps in the alleys of Lufondal."

He took a step forward.

Mot said nothing—did nothing. He only watched.

"I was here," Van Dijk continued, "when you were little more than a cult, pulling desperate fools into your promises of the Four Gods' mercy. I was here when the city branded you heretics."

Another step. Closer. The chains clinked faintly at his ankles, but they no longer restrained him.