Black Morass toward salvation

the way thantos' attention flickered, how easily he was drawn in by isobel's presence. predictable. men always were.

but isobel—oh, she was something else entirely.

ione did not scold, did not bite, only corrected with a whisper of warning beneath her tone. reverend mother, isobel. you would do well to remember it. a gentle reminder, but a reminder nonetheless. power did not go unchecked, not here. not with her.

her gaze shifted, drifting back to thantos, taking in his hard-set jaw, the way his words carried the weight of judgment beneath their surface. he is better than the last, she repeated, something unreadable in her expression. and still, you frown. she stepped closer, brushing past him with the same ease as isobel had brushed against her. does my happiness sour your tongue so?

but she did not press him for an answer. instead, she turned to isobel once more, watching the way her priestess played at something sweet, something tempting. he is my blood, she said, but i suspect he will not stay my concern for long.

she tilted her head, gaze sharp, knowing. will he, isobel?