Silas closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as though he could physically press the exhaustion out of his body. When he opened them again, his gaze fell upon Salvar with the cold, measured weight that suggested that he long since exhausted his supply of patience and was now running on nothing but sheer, stubborn will.
"You," he said, his voice low and edged with disbelief, "do not have even a shred of shame. To think of using a man who is still lying in a sickbed with his wounds barely closed and his body still weak."
Salvar, who had been leaning against the bed support with his arms folded, made an expression that looked perfectly unbothered before he tilted his head. "And you?" he replied smoothly. "Do you have even a shred of shame, firing a man who is still lying in a sickbed?"
Silas's gaze sharpened. "I have not fired him. Yet."
