"Preparations are complete."
Azazel, having finished the stage direction as requested, appeared before Saraka. It was just as Saraka had finished changing into the clothes Azazel had prepared.
Wearing black robes with all buttons fastened, a veil was pressed down over the face. From head to toe, everything was wrapped in cloth, and the only exposed skin was hands that appeared like those of an elderly person. The lower face that briefly revealed itself when enjoying tea or refreshments also bore burn marks, so it was only natural that observers would all take Saraka to be Bishop Marik.
Saraka composed herself with a lifetime's worth of discipline and called out to Azazel in a voice indistinguishable from Bishop Marik's.
"Lord Astaroth, shall we be going?"
"Yes, Bishop."
From Saraka emerged the dignified voice of a middle-aged woman. The tone, word choice, habits, mannerisms—all were exactly the same as Bishop Marik's. It was a perfect impersonation that even a demon would admire. It really seems like Bishop Marik has possessed her. Azazel admired softly.