Behind rudeness hid something else: pain, fatigue, maybe fear. My soul was garden where flowers from all fields grew—bitter and sweet.
— Sorry. —Sincerely. — Simpler: we shouldn't quarrel. Events require uniting efforts. At least temporarily.
— Why? What happened?
I sighed, as if about to jump cold river. Some news like poisoned arrows—longer delay, deeper poison.
— Kingdom on fall's edge. Sir Leyont dead. And King... King dead too.
Silence crashed into room, heavy as wet wool cloak. Esten froze. For moment I saw in eyes not just anger but confusion, grief. But then:
— You didn't even protect them. How weak you are, Sholn. Like then... when my unit died.
Wound reopened. Old pain gaped in chest—that never healed. Memory—fine executioner, no reprieve. I remembered that day: screams, smoke, burned flesh smell. And own impotence.
— True. —Word heavy stone carried in chest years. — But dead not revived, living still savable. Marshal gathers loyal. You need to camp. Ride together, discuss on way.
Esten went to window. Outside rain danced, turning world blurred watercolor.
— Not riding with you. —Without turning. — You'll betray me too when time comes. You're best at that.
Essence of our discord—not anger, not offense. Deep distrust grown from one fatal mistake. I went to other window. We stood like two sentries at different posts, gazing sides of one world.
— No, Esten. Ask anything—answer. Ask why didn't help your unit...