Page 86 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

“Undoubtedly,” Veston said. His dark red hair was tied back now, armor off due to the heat from the candles.

“His low birth only served to endear him more to the council, after they became familiar with what kind of man he was— is .” He delayed, biting something back.

“Years before the war, long before Nestor lost his queen, he’d surrounded himself with Viator from lower-class backgrounds.

After a lifetime among royals and high-born, the king developed a distaste for them.

So, he opted for males and females who truly knew the people, the city.

The council see Arryn as the best of both classes.

In touch with the people, and plenty familiar with the duties that come with the throne. ”

“But after the Queen passed?” Dean asked sharply.

“What happened to them?” While the world-walkers were in Maradenn, right there in the heart of court, none of them heard much mention of the high council.

The only instance where Ingrid had actually seen one was in the moments before the guillotine had come down on his head.

“Soon after our queen’s passing,” Veston said. “That’s when Ballius and his advisors were brought on.” His sigh hung heavy in the air, laden with unspoken hatred. “The king’s grief made him fearful. Ballius played on that fear. Slowly, the high council was pushed away.”

Dean had this information already, yet remained steady with his next question. “Pushed away where? Removed from the castle?”

“No, nothing so severe.” Veston shook his head. “Either out of fear of retaliation, or, in my opinion, some loyalty for all their years of service, the king only stopped meeting with them. Alienated them from court.”

Ingrid darted her eyes to Dean. His face was pinched, like it always was when he was focused.

She’d bet his next question was going to be about the council’s power—what Veston meant when he said the king might’ve been afraid of retaliation.

After all, that’s what this conversation had been about, whether Veston knew it or not.

Dean was assessing the likelihood of Arryn ascending the throne without Callinora. Just in case.

But before Dean could prove Ingrid right, Tyla interjected.

“Dean, please. You’re speaking as if the princess is already gone.” She was bereft, kneeling at the bedside with a hand on Callinora’s arm. “Just, not now, please. What if she can hear you?”

Veston’s eyes squinted at that. He clearly thought Dean was only curious, wanting to know more about the man he’d just rescued.

Which was only half of the truth. Dean was not heartless.

He cared for Callinora. But Dean’s mission took precedence over all else.

A switch would flip inside him, just like it had in the arena.

No longer seeing Callinora as a formidable ally, a new plan for getting his Oracle to a safe place took form.

Maradenn was abandoned without any qualms once it looked unfeasible, then, when he’d witnessed Arryn’s awakening, he drew up a new mission in his mind. To crown a new king.

A king that, as it happened, would owe him and Ingrid a great debt.

“Do you already aim toward the crown?” Veston spit. “Is this why you inquire about my prince?”

Dean’s face turned to stone, unapologetic. “Yes,” he said. “If not now, when? We don’t have much time to operate, in case you didn’t notice, soldier.”

“My name is Veston. That, or General will do.”

Dean’s mouth threatened a smile, though he read Veston’s eyes well enough to know it would be in bad form. The Maradenn general’s title, procedure, and protocol all meant something to him. Something above himself.

“We come from different worlds,” Dean said. “I think when we’re discussing the future of them, it’d do us some good to consider that, General.”

“And I think it would do you some good, world-walker, to familiarize yourself with the world you currently inhabit.” Pointing to Callinora, Veston added, “That is my princess. How able she is, it does not matter. I cannot sit idly while you again speak as if she were a meaningless casualty.”

“Fair,” Dean said. And for a moment, he looked every bit the empathetic male Ingrid knew him to be. But then he ripped that mask away.

Ingrid could only guess, but it seemed in that moment, Veston represented everything Dean felt was wrong with Ealis—how Viator honored tradition above all else.

He despised Gannotar’s teachings and followers, though he never outright stated any allegiance to Izadora’s, either.

Such pious religion was too close to the strict discipline his mother had employed.

Dean’s body tensed, jaw tight as he said, “What if I said a prayer for her? Could I discuss the future of your kingdom then?”

“You forget yourself!” Veston argued. “Take your?—”

Dean stopped him before he could finish.

“Fuck your duty, General. Not only do I have a world to protect, I have her to protect.” He pointed to Ingrid.

“Look at her. Really look at her. She is the last hope for both our worlds. You should be kissing her boots for even being here. For standing to fight, when all others have done for her is knock her to the dirt.”

The room went still as Dean moved toward Veston, his feet light, poised like an animal sneaking up on its prey.

“Do you understand?” Dean started angrily, then shook his head.

“No. You don’t understand, General. A matter of weeks.

Weeks! That’s all she’s had. All that was allowed for her to take this in.

To become what she has to become.” He pointed mockingly to Veston, his sword, his confident posture.

“So fuck your duty, Veston. Fuck your honor. Your title. You don’t know what it's like. You were born here. Lived in your rightful home all your life.”

“And?” Veston argued.

“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 walk away, 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 brutish male 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 her resented 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.