Sadly, I’ve been away for a couple weeks, but I’m back now and ready to post another ten sentences. We last saw our priestess with a knife jammed through her hand, waiting to hear from her goddess.
Seconds ticked by. My heart slid into my stomach. Finally I tightened my grip on the handle and pulled the knife out. It went blade down into the bowl of blessed water as I held my hand out to Prophet Neijen. He pressed a bandage on each side of the wound while High Priest Vaktril wrapped a strip of cloth around my hand and tied it.
Vaktril muttered his weekly admonition, “Mirian, there’s no need to penetrate your entire hand. An offering of a few drops of blood is sufficient.”
I held his gaze for a moment before turning toward my prayer mat. When I became the prophetess, he wouldn’t dare scold me.