Chapter 87
Not finding another chair in the tiny room, Hadjar sat on the edge of the table. It wasn’t difficult to do as he was only wearing the light golden armor.
“You’re the spitting image of your father.” Vaslia smiled.
He looked like a man ready to accept his fate—calm and thoughtful. Not the predatory vulture that Hadjar remembered. Many years ago, during the coup, he had been at the head of the Palace guard corps.
He’d stood behind Primus as the warlord had killed Hadjar’s mother. At the time, he hadn’t looked like an old man, but rather, like a man in his prime. That was probably who he really was.
Now he was a dying man. An illness wasn’t killing him, but his own thoughts. You might even say it was karma.
“Nonsense,” Hadjar said, refusing the wine offered to him.
He didn’t
