Exton

Malkuth raises his eyes from the scroll he’s translating and peers into the dimness of his cell. Something has broken the rhythms of this place, even though the chanting of the monks – and the screams of the heretics – goes on as usual. He listens with more than his ears and then whirls around.

Lady Ardara stands framed in the doorway, a shadow among shadows.

The scholar goes to a knee. “Forgive me, my Priestess. I knew not of your coming.”

“I chose not to announce it.” A small cruel smile plays about her lips, there and gone so quickly it might almost have been imagined. “Tell me, Loremaster, what do you know of gargoyles?”