"Modi... is that you?" General James could not believe that the figure before him, bathed in holy light yet giving off an aura of decay and old age, was his eldest son.
He had seen his son only a few months ago. Modi had been awkward and thought in ways that left him hurt and helpless, but at least he had been healthy. Now, Modi was anything but. Without the Holy Light around him, he would have looked like a consumptive—or a drug addict.
"It's me, dear Father," Modi replied with a half-smile. The soldiers and officers were stunned: the man who had appeared out of nowhere was General James's son. But they dared not lower their guard. Why had the general's son blocked the convoy's path? One furtive glance at General James's grave expression made their hearts sink. It looked as though a father and son were about to turn on each other.
Modi took a step forward. "You gave that order quickly, Father," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "You didn't even ask who it was before you ordered them to fire. Was that how you gave the order when Mother was taken hostage by the Revolutionary Army?"
General James's pupils contracted, anger and grief filling his eyes. "Modi, you have no right to accuse me. I'm a soldier. That was my duty. And you have even less right to bring up your mother. The Revolutionary Army killed her! Your enemies are those revolutionaries, those lackeys of the Rune People—not me, your father! When you laughed and talked with the so-called Revolutionary Army, whose hands were stained with your mother's blood, when you fought beside them, did you think of her? Did you remember the way she looked at you before she died? Did you remember what