Reverent Synonym Novels & Stories

Still too calm, like it didn’t care about the noise inside my head. I walked up the short steps and pushed the door open. A faint creak followed. The hall was empty. Just candles burning, pews quiet, shadows dancing against the walls. It smelled like wax and something old. Something sacred. I moved toward the back, heading for the Reverend’s side office. That was where grandma said he would be. My fingers tightened around the food container as I knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again. Then the door opened. He stood there—Reverend Thorne. Tall. Calm. Collar tight around his neck. Eyes too steady. Like nothing in the world could surprise him.

It is preferable not to exaggerate respect so as not to be misunderstood. respect for a right, privilege, or privileged position, or a person or thing has rights or privileges; appropriate acceptance or compliment; Respect the suspect's right to a lawyer; Show respect for science, and respect for the elderly. And the word contempt is the opposite of the word respect and expresses the exact opposite of everything that the word respect means.

"It was-oddly honest. If only Moroccans and journalists were like you." He glanced at me oddly. There was a hint of amusement and maybe delight lingering behind his eyes. "You're brusque." I faltered for a moment. That comment left me addled. I cocked my head to the side. "People call me many things but I have never gotten called brusque before." Orion winced lightly, sending me a horrified look. "Oh, God-no. I meant that in a good way, not as an insult. I'm sorry, that sounded very-"

“We’ll see what kind of reverend she is in the morning.” “And if she turns out to be extravagant?” Julian drawled. Ares smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting with a familiar, hard edge. “Then we’ll give her something to pray about.” They laughed, the sound slipping through the rooms and spilling into the polished quiet of the house like a ripple. At the window, behind the glass stoicism of a veiled visitor, boxes shifted and a lamp was placed at the center of a room. The reverend sister’s movements grew more purposeful, a choreography of home making. She set down a small object — a crucifix, perhaps, or a simple ceramic bowl and then took a step back to appraise the arrangement, head bowed

Even if he was in his seventies, there was an invincible air around him. “Your Highness, the Reverend.” “Your Highness, the Reverend.” “Your Highness, the Reverend.” Auster and the rest of the guardians rushed forward, disregarding the injuries on their bodies and kneeled in front of the man. So this man was the Reverend, leader of the Sacred Association! “A bunch of morons!” The Reverend was disappointed at the guardians’ performance. As guardians of the Sacred Association, how could they not crack the defense with all seven of them going at it?

Their attention never wavers from me, as if Ethan’s threat is a known quantity, already accounted for. “You felt it,” the woman continues. “The shift.” “Yes,” I say. “You knew I would.” She studies me for a long moment, gaze sharp but not unkind. “We needed confirmation.” “Of what?” Blake asks, moving to my other side. “That the Crown still remembers how to be afraid.” The words land like a stone dropped into deep water. The woman lifts her chin, eyes distant. “We call it the Reverent.” The name settles into the clearing with weight, the air itself seeming to pause around it. The Crown tightens reflexively, authority bristling, and I bite back a gasp as heat flares down my spine.

"But actually I'm curious to hear what they have to say. What exactly is wrong with someone like Tristian?" "He's a sinner Haven," Abby sneered. "And clearly he's making you one too. You dress like a slut, people have seen you drinking at restaurants, and this little carefree attitude you have lately is not cute or Godly! It is horribly obvious that you are off the path of righteousness." "Now wait a minute-"

I had heard variations of this sermon in a dozen places, spoken by men who believed reverence was the same as understanding. The goddess, the trials, the sacred balance. Always the same words. Always the same worship dressed up as wisdom. What occupied me far more than the doctor's monologue was the priest. His eyes had not left me. Not openly—not enough for the others to call him out—but enough. Too often. Too intent. His gaze didn't slide away when mine brushed it. It lingered, weighing, measuring, as if my skin were parchment and he was trying to read what lay beneath.