He’d fought his way through her fortress, her brainwashed goons slapped aside as gently as possible.
They were innocent, blameless. The silent plague they’d caught had done this.
He entered the throne room at last, finding her on the wide dias, sampling ripe grapes.
“You did this.” The Bishop narrowed his eyes. “It was your enzyme.”
“Perhaps.” Ivy stretched across her throne, indifferent to the holy man’s indignation. “What, exactly, will you do about it?”
He gripped his staff and called on his inner righteousness. The sword caught fire immediately.
“May God have mercy on your soul. Because I certainly won’t.”