Bartholomew came to Diyiren's study and removed his cloth cap.
"Apologies, My King." Bartholomew was a delicate man, established in law. He bowed slightly.
Diyiren loosened his knuckles, let his calligraphy brush slip free. "Why are you apologizing?"
Perhaps Bartholomew was reflecting on the dozens of servants and soldiers who had been beheaded.
"Do I seem like a patient man to you, Mr. Morgan?"
Bartholomew fringed his lips, winced.
"It's a rhetorical question. Get to the point."
Bartholomew worried the fabric of his cap, but he said, "Banrion Aoibh has relocated to the virgin territories."
All demon bloods for hundreds of miles paused on the silence of their King's heart.
"She gave no explanation. I have hired men to build a shelter for her. She took the cow and chickens."
Lock it inside. If they know they can hurt you, they'll torture you until you beg. And then they'll laugh.
"Thank you, Mr. Morgan."
YOU ARE READING
The Lamb and the Gray Battle
FantasyEvie has spent the last 575 years on the North American continent, now called America, the Pure and Clean. She smiles, volunteers and makes cakes and pastries for her neighbors, hiding away her demon blood. She wants nothing to do with her estranged...
