The white-haired Conan Doyle wore rumpled clothes, blood on his lips. He looked at Roland hopefully but dared not say a word.
Behind Conan Doyle was his wife, his two sons, his two daughter-in-laws, and his two grandchildren.
The older of his grandchildren was only ten, and the younger one was around seven.
They were all panicked. But awed by the Church of Storm, they dared not move at all with their hands tied up.
Roland gazed at them for a while and then turned back to the leading male cleric. He asked gently, "Were they involved in the incident in Sisilia too?"
The middle-aged cleric eyed Roland up and down warily, but he did not give in at all. "Who are you? This is the Church of Storm's business. Get out of the way if you're not from a significant background."
Roland smiled at the man's arrogance. "I don't have any background, but I'm in charge of this city for now."
