I held in my panic and did my best to keep a poker face when I saw that scar-face-chief. He leaned forward from the chair to reveal more of his formidable presence.

“Girls. Or should I say slaves to Anwar.”

I noticed a distaste to his words and flinched when he loudly shuffled out of the chair. His boots echoed on the stone as he walked to stand before us.

He circled our bodies as he did a quick assessment of our condition, then stood glaring down on us from his commanding position.

“Last thing I want to see is my slaves looking shabby before I hand you over.” He nodded.

Confused thoughts raced through my brain, but I squashed them down to ensure they didn’t surface as an expression on my face.

“You hold yourself well, but that smug attitude of yours will earn you a slap.” He stepped up so close to my face, his breath was heating my cheeks.

And it reeked like death. So much so, I was using all my inner strength not to retch and keel over.

He chuckled and stepped back. “You’re entertaining.”

“Chief Morrisett. Please do not tease the newcomers, especially when they’ll be in Anwar’s care going forward.” A wiry, elderly woman scolded the man as she entered the room.

She was wearing the same colored full-length robes as our tunics and pants. A pink and silver rose insignia was gleaming as a clasp on her right breast, which held the joins and fabric together. Her face was wrinkly and long, with sharp brown eyes peering austerely at the young chief. Her graying brown hair was combed back and protected by a jade green colored head cowl. The cowls ends were wrapped around her neck like a scarf, ensuring only her hands were visible. Even her feet were covered in white socks and flax sandals.

“Mother Emorgen.” He sighed without showing the woman any respect.

She didn’t hide her annoyance with his attitude.

“You will do well to show some respect, boy!” She curtly berated him like he was a child.

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Neither Kalia and I showed our fright on our faces, but our hands twitched with nerves from the sharp tones of her voice.

“Sorry, sorry. Yes, dear mother.” He gave her a flourish bow, more as a form of mockery.

I gulped at the strong swell of dark energies about his aura. There was something about him that screamed out, "avoid at all cost."

Yet, for this elderly woman to stir this reaction from him made me wonder how powerful the Temple of Anwar was within The Zone’s society.

“I’ll leave them to your care.” His voice was more cordial and formal this time.

He gave us a sinister smile before making his exit. We faced Mother Emorgen’s austere gaze.

“Follow.” She turned and walked out.

We shared a glance and hurried after her; following her lead down a stylish hallway and into a small antechamber where three other women waited. Judging by their same colored robes and tunics, they were fellow sisters or mothers.

Two of them wore the same robes and head cowls like Mother Emorgen. Their insignia was made of pink and iron. I hazard a guess that these clasps indicated a rank of some sort.

“Sisters’ Branwyn and Malia.” Mother Emorgen noted of the women.

Sister Branwyn’s image could rival Kalia’s royal beauty. The tips of her blond fringe peaked above shapely fine eyebrows; narrow green eyes gave an impression of shrewdness. Her pinkish, soft lips were closed and void of a smile as well. She was slender and more curvaceous yet held the same expected modesty for a reverend sister.

Where Sister Branwyn was an ice beauty, Sister Malia was more dumpy and held an expression of homely warmth. Her round brown eyes twinkled with a smile. Even the corners of her small, full, lips twitched with one. She held her pudgy hands before her in a reverent pose, which pushed out some of the contours of her hearty stomach. I found this sister likable.

“Aah, the iron clasps indicate a sister.” I concluded in thought as I gave a cordial bow to the women.

“Senior disciple Edde. You’ll be in her care going forward.”

The good mother’s voice was neither welcoming nor austere at the introductions. Rather, it had been a chore to get out of the way and save further explanations.

I bowed to the tall and lanky woman who was wearing the same type of clothes as we were. The only difference to her clothing was a sewn patch of the Anwar emblem on her right breast. Her head was free from a head cowl. So I saw her straw-blond hair, cropped short like a boy’s with some of her fringe hanging over her thin eyebrows. Her gray eyes regarded us aloofly. Definitely, her thin lips weren’t ready to open with words anytime soon. And I was reminded of the importance of remaining silent.

Sister Branwyn regarded me with a look of disdain.

“Guess she doesn’t want to be friends.” I mused in thought.

Mother Emorgen walked out of the antechamber. We followed her lead.