(Previous Chapter)

Inquisitor Varyna set down her quill, leaned back in her seat, and met Ilarion with a hard stare.

“What’s the matter, Inquisitor?” Ilarion asked, a sardonic grin creasing his lips. “Hand cramping already? God’s faces, but we’ve only just got going. My throat isn’t even feeling the effects of that piss you call cider I was forced to drink a while ago.”

Varyna ignored him. “Tell me, Ilarion, do you really expect me to believe all of this sentimental crap you’re telling me?”

“What...