"I was wrong, my Lord." The words fell out of Jenggala's mouth like dead leaves, dry and brittle, would crumble at the slightest touch. "Your wisdom has saved me from ruin. I will not mention this anymore."
That was it, he'd said the right thing. He'd fallen on the sword of his own feelings and declared them dead. After all, if this was for the greater good for humanity, the Lord would be pleased.
He was one to sacrifice his life to work and learn for a successful pilgrimage every hundred years, so he must've expected the same mindset from his subordinates. This was just how it should be.
Oathran, meanwhile, frowned.
"I've spoken this much," the Dragon Lord said slowly, "and you still take it shallowly?"
Oathran sighed in disbelief. "What do you mean you won't mention it anymore? Are you going to accept cowardice?"
Jenggala widened his eyes.
C-cowardice?
The word hit him like a slap. No—like a bucket of ice water.
