The council chamber was too small for the anger contained within it.
Zekar stood at the head of the table, his palms laid flat upon the stone, feeling the heat build beneath his skin. Around him, the leaders of New Varnathian sat in their appointed places: Druvkaur, Zathrîkul, Khursaga, and even two Velanthri elders who had survived the massacre. They had come to discuss the rescue mission. They had come, in truth, to question him.
"You risked our best people," the Khursaga elder said. His name was Torvin, a man old enough to remember the before-times, his face a map of wrinkles and suspicion. "For what? One maid. A woman who cannot even speak." He leaned forward, his eyes hard. "What strategic value does she bring, my king?"
The title sounded like an insult in his mouth.
Zekar felt the fire rise, that old familiar heat that wanted to burn, to destroy, to make this man understand through pain what he would not accept through reason. He forced it down. Forced himself to breathe.
