Son of a slave

"His thoughts weren’t muddled. Or do you not trust my judgment?" "His thoughts weren’t muddled. Or do you not trust my judgment?" The man was accompanied by a few dozen of the more prominent clergymen that had been assigned to take part in this journey, most of them showing the same skepticism and suspicion. Waiting for Peimon to respond, they maintained a practiced quiet as they stood idly by the roadside in their immaculate white robes amidst a backdrop of tall, verdant trees and vast, towering mountains.

"He must have hit his head, then," Peimon went on. "In what world would a young lad like that encounter a demon and still manage to escape with his life?"

The others murmured in agreement.

"According to the boy, the creature was out of sorts, as if it had just woken up from a long slumber."

"Your Grace," said Gartur, who offered an explanation on his behalf.

Maels nodded.

"Respected gentlemen, you’ve seen for yourselves the boy’s state. He’s clearly overdrawn his inner energies, which can only mean that he attempted to repel the demon with a spell." Nodding toward the carriage from beneath his hood, Gartur’s obscured expression was likely one of the utmost respect and politeness, as was usually the case whenever he addressed members of the clergy. "In this part of the empire, only a Silverkin could afford so many magical supplements, which means that even without them this boy likely has a substantial amount of inner energies."

"Don’t you dare presume to speak to me, you filth!"