"Run…" She said, her voice a whisper. Only Amelia caught her. She glimpsed at her mistress's face. She was a head shorter than Lasha, and when she looked up, she could see right into her eyes. She grasped for Lasha's hand. Whatever fear Lasha felt, Amelia – a gentle soul, despite the fire that she routinely displayed – likely felt far worse.
Even the priest in front of them – despite his spear being ready – seemed absolutely baffled. His normally refined appearance was barred by a mouth that hung half open.
It was terrifying. An abnormality. An impossibility. Yet Oliver stood, completely nonchalant in front of them.
He'd removed his jacket for the purpose. He'd made a big enough deal about getting a newer and cheaper one – which Verdant had eventually done for him – that even Lasha had been aware of it.
The jacket that he'd already stained in blood, he now discarded, bearing a loose blue shirt to the elements.
Gods, was he smiling?
