Much to his disappointment, there was little of value to overhear.
The people, both men and women were talking about their devotion and admiration for the Saintess, their voices trembling with gratitude for the divine grace she had bestowed upon them.
If not for her, they all would be rotting in jail due to their sins. Their varied accents of speaking told Xion that most of them were not from the North.
"Y'know, lad? When your child's cryin' for food, who gives a damn about right and wrong?" the burly man beside him muttered, dragging over a worn, splintering chair. "That's what I thought too, when I nicked bread from some noble's kitchen."
He chuckled, but the sound was hollow. "Twenty lashes, lad. Twenty. If not for Her Holiness, I'd have died in that pit."
Xion's heart skipped a beat. Twenty lashes in this world might as well have been a death sentence.
