The acolytes' hands were inches from my sleeves. Their fingers, pale and soft from a life spent among incense and parchment, reached for me with the presumptive authority of men who believed their cause just and their power absolute. Behind them, Inquisitor Voss watched with the cold satisfaction of a hunter whose trap had closed around its prey. The deaconess clutched her tome, her quill poised to record the moment of acquisition.
I had no strength to recoil. No voice to protest. No power to resist. I sat against the cold marble column, a drained vessel, and watched the Church's claim descend upon me like a shroud.
The acolytes' fingers brushed the fabric of my sleeve.
And the world stopped.
