The gaze Ashlynn directed at the young acolyte was filled with an almost motherly reproach, as if the acolyte was a young boy who had just knocked a pitcher of wine off the table and posed just as much threat, no matter how much he tried to use his crimson and gold robes to puff himself up in order to intimidate her.
She could see the fear in him, bright and raw beneath the rigid set of his jaw, and she could see the way that fear was curdling into something worse with every heartbeat that passed.
He didn't know who she really was. He knew enough to be terrified, but not enough to understand what he was truly facing, and that gap between his knowledge and reality was filling rapidly with everything Abbot Recared had ever told him about the enemies of the Holy Lord of Light.
