The feast was over, but its stench lingered. Even after the cultists had scattered to their quarters, the reek of rancid grease and sour broth clung to Leon and Wolfe's skin like an invisible chain. They stripped out of their robes the moment they were behind closed doors, tossing them into a corner as though the fabric itself had teeth.
Leon opened the narrow window slit and tried to breathe the night air. It didn't help much. The desert wind carried grit, but it still smelled cleaner than the banquet hall. Wolfe leaned against the wall, pale, hand pressed to his stomach.
"If I puke," he muttered, "it's not devotion, it's biology."
Leon gave him a faint smirk. "Hold it in. Saluki would probably call vomit another form of worship."
Wolfe groaned, sliding down until he sat on the floor. "Dog God save me from dogma."
