Strangely enough, the silence heated time like a furnace.
The flow stretched on endlessly, pouring down like molten ingots. It dragged out so long that it almost seemed to have come to a standstill. Even so, my mouth remained like a firmly locked padlock, showing no sign of opening.
The reason was simple.
Too many things had come to mind all at once.
Overabundance instead created emptiness.
“The Order,” he said. Could it really be the same organization I understood it to be? The sight of the middle-aged man casually admitting that he served the enemy of mankind felt strangely unfamiliar.
Of course, Marquis Findleston was a man who stood upon the boundary.
He had ties to both the Empire and the Order. Even so, his true loyalty should have remained directed toward the Empire. If for no other reason than the ominously glowing string of symbols around the man’s neck.
The Dragonblood Script.
An arrangement left behind by dragons thousands of years ago.
And also the reason the middle-aged man before me could never betray the Imperial…