The Commander: A Sacrificed Short Story (The Last Oracle) by Emily Wibberley Page B

back there,” he continued, “but it was doubtless effective. A lesser man than myself might be concerned about his potential for progeny.”
    This time he caught something flash in her eyes—anger.  
    “Then clearly I didn’t hit hard enough,” she finally said.
    He laughed and found himself smiling at her as if she were one of the ladies from court always trying to garner his favor. But she didn’t blush and simper like any of those ladies. Instead, she glared at him, unamused. There was something wild and fiercely intelligent in the way she eyed him. She tried to pull her feet away from him to get up, but he held them tightly in his hands.
    “Like I said, you have an infection,” he repeated.
    This time his words seemed to sink in. He watched as the edges of panic crept into her expression.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, struggling to sit up, but he laid a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.
    What am I doing?
    “I’m trying to clean out the wound. Stop moving,” he answered.
    “Why?” Her eyes narrowed.
    Another good question .
    “Well, because it will hurt more if you don’t keep still. But you choose.”
    She shook her head. “No, I mean, why are you trying to clean it?”
    He didn’t know how to answer, so he dipped the cloth into a basin at his side and went back to cleaning the wound. He felt her muscles clench with the pain, but she didn’t make so much as a gasp.  
    “Because,” he finally answered, “there’s no need to suffer while you are here.” His voice came out soft. Because I don’t want to watch you suffer , he might have added. But he bit that back.
    “Isn’t suffering kind of the whole point?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.
    “No. It’s not.” His tone was firm. “Sacrifice and suffering are not the same thing.”
    “Oh, so I won’t suffer when I have my heart cut out?” Her voice carried a sharp edge, and she raised an eyebrow in challenge.
    “No, that’s not—what I mean is suffering without sacrifice, like letting these wounds fester, is meaningless. The suffering in sacrifice has a greater purpose.”
    “Well then, you need to cauterize that,” she ordered, her voice firm in its command.
    Riece looked up sharply. This was bad. She was too comfortable with him. He needed to be harder with her.  
    “Usually, the slave doesn’t give the orders,” he said in warning.
    She ignored him. “If you don’t know how, I can do it. Give me a heated blade.”
    “And now the slave is demanding a weapon. After your near-escape earlier, I don’t think that would be wise.”
    “You afraid of a girl, a slave?” she asked, challenging him yet again.
    “It’s a foolish man who pays no mind to desperation, especially armed desperation.” Their eyes locked for the first time, and Riece felt his mouth go dry.
    He swallowed and finally recovered his voice. “Plus, I know how to cauterize a wound. I just don’t think that such pain would be the humane thing to do in this circumstance. It’s too much.”
    “I’m telling you that the pain is not too much.” She sat up and grabbed his hand. “I’ll die within the week without it.”
    “You’ll die in three days.” He said, more to himself than to her.
    She didn’t even flinch at the number. “Just do it. I’ll need my leg if I’m going to escape.”
    He stared at her. “You know, you really shouldn’t be so forthcoming with your plans.”
    “At least give me a fighting chance. It would be the honorable thing.” She met his eyes once more.
    “You are as foolish as you are arrogant,” he said sadly. She shouldn’t be so brave. He didn’t want to see that bravery underneath the priest’s knife—didn’t want to see that defiant fire in her eyes fade.
    “Come on,” she pleaded. “I’m sure you can handle one girl. You are what, third rank?”
    She twisted around to try to see his plumage, but Riece spun out of reach. For some reason, the idea of this girl knowing just how many