Sasha turned. A young man leaned against the cellar stairs, arms crossed. He was handsome in a ruinous way—scarred knuckles, pale eyes, a scar that pulled his left eyebrow into a permanent sneer. He wore the patchwork cloak of a traveling gambler.
“My name,” she said quietly. “They can have my title. My memories. My future. I don’t care.” Saint Sasha and the Scarlet Demon-s Stone -v1.0...
“The village of Thornwell has three days,” said the Inquisitor, his voice flat as a ledger. He stood at the chapel door, shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. “Then the Scarlets will come.” Sasha turned