Diana All eight of them suffer through it. All except Elder Thomas. The ancient man stands to the side, hunched over his gnarled walking stick, his knuckles white where they grip the wood. His face is the color of spoiled milk, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He looks like a strong breeze could snap him in half. Dominicus doesn’t touch him. According to him, the man is so old and frail that if he did, his heart might give out and he would expire from the fear alone. But from the way Elder Thomas trembles, his rheumy eyes darting between his fellow Elders as they moan and writhe, it’s clear he’s suffering just as much. Occasionally, Dominicus pauses. “Are you the traitor?” he’ll ask, voice deceptively mild. “No!” they gasp, voices cracking. And he continues. Hours pass. Then a full day. The Elders grow delirious, their fear turning them feral. They start accusing each other, voices rising in panic. “It’s you!” Elder Gideon snarls at Elder Fendel, spittle
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