"You've done this to all of them," Cian said, and his voice had taken on a quality that made the skin on the back of Ashlynn's neck prickle. Not the climbing panic of his earlier outburst or the stiff recitation of his Abbot's warnings. Something flatter. Colder. Something that sounded all too similar to Owain's voice on the night he'd discovered that his wife bore the mark of the witch.
"My sister. Her husband. The Baron. Even Inquisitor Diarmuid." Cian said. His eyes were fixed on Ashlynn, and the brightness in them had hardened past fear, past grief, into the terrible clarity of conviction. "You've corrupted all of them with your witchcraft. Twisted their minds the way the Abbot warned us you would. And now my sister sits there holding your hand, wearing her pendant like it still means something, while you…."
"Cian," Cerys said, and the single word held more grief than anything she'd said all night. "Please. Just listen…"
