Philippe’s hand went to his chest. He drew a stuttering breath.
Lord Bellicor looked down at Philippe. “Raise your shirt.”
Philippe grasped the edge of his mail shirt and the gambeson underneath and lifted them. A loud gasp came from the crowd as he turned in a circle, showing all present the mark over his heart, a mark as red as the spots across the war god’s face.
Lord Bellicor beckoned Laurent. “I turn over this letter to you, Laurent de Lois, High Priest of the Confrérie du Chêne. The word of the war god is irrefutable, yet this letter must be reviewed by the Council of Priests as is the law.”
Laurent bowed, pressing his fingers to his forehead. “It will be done, my Lord.”
The King of Ocosse raised his fist into the air. “All hail the true King of Darloque! All hail King Philippe!
