Page 155 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Exactly. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
Silence fell between them. Tyla looked up to the Maradenn general, pleading with her eyes for him to leave it, to walkaway, and Raidinn did the same with Dean, shaking his head in protest.
But Veston was too swept up in the provocation. “Understand what?” he sneered.
“Any of it! Any of what our fight, here, now, what it took. What it still demands. A matter of weeks,” Dean repeated. “Weeks!”
Veston laughed, disdainfully crossing his arms. “I know. You don’t have to keep repeating yourself.”
“Yes, I do. How else do I get through that thick skull of yours!?”
The general flared upward. “I understand just fine! We are living in mad times, desperate times. But if the decision is clear between right and wrong, you need only a moment to choose. And your Oracle chose?—”
“Chose? There was no decision. It was this, or have what little freedom she’d created for herself taken away. This!” He threw his hands up, gesturing to their surroundings, the aftermath of all that bloodshed, all that pain, all that death. “Or nothing!” Dean barked.
Veston’s fingers twitched, inching closer to his blade. Dean’s eyes registered the slight movement, but he took another step directly at him, lowering his voice to a deathly monotone. “There was no fucking decision,” he repeated. “That’s what you don’t understand. If all fails, you will go on. If your kingdom falls, you’ll be living under the thumb of a new ruler, but still living.”
Veston cocked his chin up. “You dishonor me. To suggest I wouldn’t die with my army if we were to fall in battle…”
“And in what battle would that be?” Dean asked. “Your king has quit. Your court is overrun with rats. Your future is not blood and battle.” Dean showed restraint here, thinking on the words he was about to utter. He knew better. He was not the brutishmale before them now. He was intelligent, cautious. And so he knew very well that any further insult would be unwise.
But Dean didn’t seem to care. “Your future is dirty knees and a bowed head.”
Veston exploded forward, seizing Dean by the collar of his shirt. Standing there, locked in so closely, the two males couldn’t have been less alike in their disposition. The general was shaking, murder lighting his eyes. While Dean was a picture of calmness, as if he’d wanted this altercation.
Wood squeaked as their boots dug in.
Then Dean let out a bored sniff. “Are you angry because of my insults, Veston? Or are you angry because you know I’m right?”
The general couldn’t speak, couldn’t see reason. He lifted Dean with a grunt, tightening his grip around the neck and cutting off circulation.
In answer, Dean pulled a knife from his fighting vest and put it to Veston’s neck, a bit of blood mixing in with the dark red stubble.
“Stop!” Tyla shouted, getting to her feet and standing close to the pair. “It’s done. You’ve gotten it out of your system. Good on you. I don’t blame you. But look at yourselves. Look at the little boys you’ve devolved into. Stop this! Now!”
Ingrid had not moved, enthralled like an innocent bystander watching a train derail. But now that Tyla had broken through the haze, a twinge of guilt coursed through her. If anyone could’ve calmed Dean, it was her. With a single plea, she could’ve stopped it before it started.
But she hadn’t. Because in truth, she hadn’t wanted it to stop. Deep down, Dean’s anger was no different from her own. She needed Maradenn to restore order. She needed them to rid themselves of the vermin infesting their walls. And she sympathized with Nestor, felt his grief, but another part of herresented the great kingdom. She hated that she had to rely on them, and she was disgusted with how they’d let themselves get to where they are now.
“Please stop,” Ingrid said finally. “Dean, please?”
Without breaking his glare at Veston, Dean immediately lowered his weapon. Veston returned the kindness, releasing his collar. The two males stood facing one another, breathing a little heavier, staying ready if another outburst occurred.
“It’s over,” Tyla said forcefully. “One of you needs to step up and apologize. Whether you like it or not, we need?—"
A strained and gurgling croak interrupted, coming from the other side of the room.
In unison, all five of them pointed their attention to the bed.
“Callinora?”
“Callinora?” Ingrid asked again. “Did you say something?”
Tyla returned to the head of the wooden frame. Hope filled her eyes as a third sound came from under the covers, and she pinched at the blanket, pulling it down gently.
“She moved,” Tyla said. It was slight, but she had indeed. Callinora had shifted to her side, facing away toward the window of the cabin. Tyla reached for her, whispered her name, then placed her hand at the back of the princess’s neck to check if her temperature had improved.
“She’s burning up.”
