Stavian doesn’t really remember the first time he read Evil. The first times he read Neutral instead of Good, Neutral instead of Lawful, were really much bigger shocks. He knows what he did, of course; like any good church-raised boy, he panicked, ordered ten thousand crowns donated to the Church of Iomedae and another five to the Church of Sarenrae, and had the priest read him again.

“Chaotic neutral,” the man was Abadaran and cast Truthtelling on himself every morning to confirm it because they’re the only bloody ones you can trust in Taldor. Every third Emperor has them all killed and in a month the Ulfen Guard is raising the next man on a shield

“Thank you,” said Stavian repeating bastard, bastard, bastard over and over again in his head. He’s not sure who he meant. Pharasma, maybe. Wrong insult.

At least, that’s what he usually does when he reads Evil. Sometimes it’s bigger numbers. He’s pretty sure he panicked the first time, but by this point there’s really not much emotion to it. Everyone has to pay taxes sometimes, even if it’s to Heaven.