“Hurting others is a sin,” Isaac said as though quoting something. “Whether it be words or?—”
“No, Mister Morrow. No. You cannot retaliate against cruel words with violence. It’s an overcorrection.”
Isaac’s jaw pulsed.
Sloan sighed. “Whose word is law?”
Isaac sighed hard. “Yours.”
Shadrach’s brows rose.
Sloan sat back in his chair with a dark, satisfied look. “And I’m telling you that you cannot attack someone because of the words they use. No matter what. If you do, it makes you the one in the wrong.”
Isaac’s shoulders slumped. “My punishment?”
“A week in the archives after class. No dinners. And you’ll goto Father Hawley tonight. Confess your sins to him and let him absolve you.”
A barely visible shudder rolled down Isaac’s hunched spine.
What the fuck?Shadrach didn’t recall any of the paladins mentioning they’d been punished with restricted food. And what did ‘go to Father Hawley’ mean? It sounded more sinister than a simple bout in the confessional, and Isaac’s visceral reaction suggested it was something he dreaded.
What else was going on in that place that the four sentinels didn’t know?
Enough of this. He didn’t want to see any more. Not right now. He reached out and washed it away, like throwing water on chalk. Darkness enveloped him, and he molded a new scene. The storage room, with Isaac sitting in the chair. He wasn’t bound this time, though, and Shadrach leaned in close, bracing a hand on the back of the chair behind Isaac’s shoulder and using a curled finger under his chin to guide those green-gold eyes to his.
“Focus on me, killer. Keep those demons at bay.”
“Says the demon,” Isaac replied automatically, his voice soft and dreamlike.
He smiled sweetly. “I’m a good demon.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Icanbe a good demon.”
Isaac’s bland smile didn’t change. “I doubt that, too.”
Shadrach patiently turned his attention elsewhere. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Isaac’s gaze circled the hazy storage room around them. It had bare brick walls that were painted off-white and an old, stained tile floor. The humans had painted the grimy walls but not bothered with the floor yet. The room was altogether lackluster—even more so in this faded dreamscape.
“You want to know what the guild’s planning.”
“Yes.” Shadrach knelt, making space for himself between Isaac’s knees rather than hovering over him. “What can you tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“Tsk, come on now. You’re a paladin. Surely you’ve heard things.”
“I know he wants to hit the halflings and the traitors. I don’t know if he’s gotten approval from the council yet. It has to be a unanimous decision.”
“Do you think they’ll approve it?”
“Not any time soon. We have to rebuild first. But eventually, yeah. He’s convinced most of the guild that the traitors led the kalmach there somehow.”
Shadrach nodded, considering his next question. “Why have you been spying on the dissenters?”
Isaac’s gaze fell to his lap. “Sloan’s word is law,” he quoted. “I’m not allowed to lie to him. When he asked if I knew what people were saying, I had to tell him.”
