The commoners nodded. The 'yes-the-priestess-healed-my-son' nod. The 'the-church-blessed-our-harvest' nod. The accumulated goodwill of years of genuine service.
"And now," the Paladin said. His fist clenched. The old man's voice trembled with righteous fury. "The son of Redwood, bearing the mark of the devil, dares to walk among us. Dares to claim authority. Dares to put God-fearing men on their knees."
He was already imagining it. The 'Viktor-will-come-on-his-knees' fantasy. The 'he-will-beg-me-for-forgiveness' visualization. The old man's lips curled. The 'I-am-waiting' smile that was both anticipation and threat.
"You brat," the Paladin muttered. The words were quiet. Not meant for the crowd. For himself. The 'you-will-beg-to-me' whisper that was both prayer and curse. "You will beg to me."
The crowd was silent. Waiting. The 'what-happens-now' anticipation.
Then the sky lit up.
