The Immortal Chronicles | | b o o k 2

29. insanity

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IMMORTAL CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE : cirian wiltshire

. . .

"You are making a terrible mistake, Cirian." Lord General Ambrose's voice was cold, rivaling against Cirian's blisteringly chilled hands. He clenched them, wondering if his father could feel the frost radiating from him. "I cannot let you go through with this."

"If you tell me why, then maybe I will consider dropping the case," he retorted, aware that the veins in his father's neck were pulsing. He'd never once seen his father so angry this close up—his eyes were as sharp as the metal on the pistol he carried at his hip. His neck grew red as he seethed at Cirian.

"You cannot drop your responsibilities in Anjour like this! Damn finding the sonuvabitch you call a father—you could be gone for weeks, Cirian. Is this truly worth abandoning your post? In a time of war? Your inferiors are not fit to make decisions if things go south!" he snapped, grabbing Cirian by the arm when he turned to pace away. As he pulled his son closer, a look of disgust was on Cirian's visage.

He yanked his arm away from the Lord General and took a step back. "We aren't apart of the war—not that far north! It's the southern border you should be worrying about. They haven't been causing us trouble, nor should they!" he retorted. "The only reason you're worrying about it is because you're paranoid! The fighting is in Matalivens, not here."

"That does not mean it won't be," he said, his voice dangerously low. "The only way the North would be capable of winning the war would mean possessing weaponry only we have. If they gained ownership of explosives, of our machinery, they could wipe out the entirety of the Great Forest."

"Anjour doesn't hold any of Res'rustica's military equipment," Cirian said.

"No, but you have people to protect nonetheless. You cannot make decisions for them from Damunt." They stared at each other long and hard before the Lord General spoke up again, his voice tired. "You had your entire adolescence to be asinine. Now is not the time to be defiant and rebellious, son."

Cirian stared at the Lord General, realizing that now was not the time to correct him. He turned to the side, tightening his jaw as he saw the sunlight peak over the trees on the horizon. He twisted around to look at his carriage, the driver posted on the front bench by the wheel, and his wife sitting in the back, pretending she wasn't eavesdropping. With a heartfelt sigh, he glanced back at the man who was supposed to be his father, and yet, never acknowledged that he wasn't.

"I'm sorry. I can't let this sit and fester like everything else," Cirian said. Despite the fury still present on the Lord General's face, he did nothing to prevent Cirian from resting a hand on his shoulder. "I will write to you soon," he said.

The Lord General gave a gruff sound of agreement as he stepped back from Cirian. He took it as a sign to leave then, and leave his relationship with his supposed father tense until the next time they were able to clear the air. Cirian wasn't sure how long it would be until then.

Cirian collapsed in the passenger coach against the cushioned seats and the smell of fresh wood tinted with the mixture of Renée's perfume. He sat close to the window, providing space between them for the sword she rested against the seat. She was watching him as the carriage rumbled to a start, and navigated them out of the palace grounds. She seemed to gather her bearings again once calling out the window to the guards on watch at the gates. They all waved to her, and when she playfully tossed them a handkerchief, they fought to see who could catch it first.