The Holy Inquisition

The unsettling quiet after the Order’s initial attack on Blackwood Manor was more unnerving than the assault itself. Ethan, jittery and fueled by lukewarm coffee, paced the length of the library. The scent of old paper and dust, usually comforting, now felt like the stale air of a tomb. Seraphina, perched on the edge of a vast, leather-bound armchair, observed him with an almost detached amusement.

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“Relax, little lamb,” she drawled, her voice smooth as velvet but carrying an undercurrent of steel. “They won’t be back so soon. Their pride is wounded, and wounded animals are predictable. They'll regroup, restrategize, and come at us with… enhanced zeal.”

Ethan stopped pacing. "Enhanced zeal? That's what you're worried about? They nearly turned me into holy toast last night!"

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