"I did not ogle," Lyan thought back. "I glanced."
(Incubus instincts never die,) she said.
Arturia made a small scandalized sound.
(At least attempt to treat her with the respect due a holy woman.)
"I am," Lyan said silently. "Mostly."
The woman by the pool turned to face them.
Her gaze swept over Lyan once.
For a moment, it felt like someone had looked under his skin.
Not in a stripping way. In a counting way. Like she saw not just his body, but everything clinging to it—the scars, the years, the eight spirits, the demon-tainted pieces he kept tucked behind his teeth.
Then her eyes softened.
"Lyan Arcanium," she said.
His name didn't echo. It just sat there, quiet and precise.
The spirits jolted.
(How does she know—) Griselda began.
Eira cut her off.
(She is not ordinary.)
Cynthia hummed.
(Holy places listen. Maybe she's been hearing him climb for a long time.)
Lyan inclined his head slightly.
"Saintess," he said.
She smiled.
