Gabb, the Royal Guard Commander, walked back to the makeshift camp, his movements timed and robotic. Blink, breathe, left foot, right foot. Blink, breathe, left foot, right foot.
He was completely out of control. Not over his fingertips, legs, or lungs—as if the part of his brain that controlled his muscles had short-circuited and refused to reboot. He moved as if on autopilot, but someone had reprogrammed his movements and held the remote.
It was driving him insane. Unable to instruct his body to move or feel anything, the dissonance it caused left him shouting, screaming, or doing anything to regain control.
He'd spent his entire life in command. His entire career revolved around his ability to manipulate situations and fight his way to the best outcome for him and his men. He was
