Oliver stands conflicted, blade poised as he locks eyes with Linnea. Her words plead for clemency despite this priest nearly unleashing dread forces upon the realms. Can a soul so corrupted ever find redemption? Does mercy simply enable greater chaos?
His warrior instincts demand vengeance - put down evil with swift, uncompromising justice. Anything less invites future suffering. Yet an unwavering light radiates in Linnea’s gaze - she sees possibility even here amidst the ashes of ill intent. Always before her inner sight has guided them aright.
With a frustrated sigh, Oliver lowers his weapon. The party stands down, deferring to Linnea’s wisdom. Their restraint unnerves the priest, whose feverish mutterings amplify in the tense air. He flinches under Vera’s renewed binding spell, anticipating the killing blow. Only gradual realization brings awareness that he yet lives.