he doors swung open and High Priest Auron Tenebrae strode into the room, his robe swirling around his tall, narrow frame. To his right was Quiver, a miser with words, but overly generous with withering glares. To Tenebrae’s left, Craven, a bland sycophant, possessed of an uncanny skill to worm his way into his superior’s good graces. Solomon Wreath had been seeing far too much of all three lately.
“Cleric Wreath,” Tenebrae said, nodding imperiously at him.
“Your Eminence,” Wreath responded, bowing deeply. “To what do I owe the honour?”
“Why do you think we’re here?” Craven said, almost sneered. “You’re late with your report. Did you think the High Priest would forget? Do you think him a fool?”
“I do not think him a fool, no,” Wreath answered calmly. “But as to the intelligence of the people who accompany him, I’m afraid I cannot say.”
“An insult!” Craven screeched. “How dare you! How dare you use a derogatory tone in the presence of the High Priest!”
“Enough,” Tenebrae sighed, “both of you. Your constant bickering tries my patience.”
rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter 13. Suffering
