"The Great Crusade is moving too slowly."
Saladin's voice rang out, quiet, yet like a shard of ice, abruptly piercing the brief relief that had filled the chamber upon his awakening.
There was no warmth in that voice, only a precise, almost ruthless judgment.
"Too slowly," he repeated, his delivery flat.
"Time is life. How is this any different from wasting your own lives?"
The kneeling commanders froze.
Their elation stiffened on their faces, replaced by shock and bewilderment.
They raised their heads to look at their Gene-Father.
Saladin threw back the thin blanket covering him. His movements still carried the stiffness of someone newly recovered from grave wounds, but he rose steadily to his feet.
His towering body cast a shadow beneath the chamber lights, enveloping his kneeling sons.
His gaze swept over them. It held none of the familiar heat of a desert sun, nor the weakness of his injuries, only a frozen lake. Yet deep beneath its surface, an unfamiliar, restless flame flickered.
It was anger, but seemingly more than anger. There was an alienation, too.
"Resume the Great Crusade immediately," he declared, his voice low but carrying the weight of an unquestionable law.
"That is an order."
"Father," Biberus said, lifting his head, his brow tightly furrowed, unable to suppress the concern and protest in his voice.
"Your injuries... the Legion needs to recover. The occupied territories need consolidating. We do not know the enemy's movements. Advancing recklessly..."
"I am the master of this Legion, Biberus."
Saladin cut him off and took a step forward, his shadow bearing down still more heavily upon his commander.
His gaze pinned Biberus's face. Every word was clear and cold. "Do not forget your place, commander."
His words cut like a blade, severing every argument yet unspoken.
Biberus shuddered. The