Chapter 89

Back in the Western Plains, a Commander General continues his vigilant observance throughout the night, long after all the castle lights have been extinguished.

Alone, he sits, eyes sharp as he assesses each unobtrusive corner of the room.

It is none other than Lord Brendan’s own private study, a room that is locked and forbidden to all those aside from the lord himself, and his most trusted advisor: the General who has tasted only the sweetness of victory, each time he has stepped onto the battlefield.

Lincoln tilts his head.

And then, in a motion too quick for an ordinary man to catch, seizes the dagger laying innocently across the desk, and hurls it across the room.

It sinks itself into its target.

A gasped expletive fills the air.

Lincoln picks up a second dagger, its blade gleaming under the single line of moonlight spilling in through the sliver in the curtains. This, in the next breath, he throws with lethal accuracy.

“My, would you look at that,” he says cheerfully, brightly.