"Why have doubts, dear Monarch."

       He hated being wrong. It nauseated him. It did belittle him and made him seem as though he was the dumbest of all beings. He knew that was not true. He was trying to be sane. The voice yet was familiar but the man who had stepped off the carriage was different. He looked Irish. He couldn't be sure. He had known few gladiators from Ireland. He knew what they could do and what they were up to. He was trying to test his stance. He knew that he wasn't wrong. His mercy wouldn't him. He couldn't afford to nurse stray thoughts. He let his rage subside. If he didn't, hardly would he be able to prune lofty thoughts. He would only be given to his rage and that would never help him. He would steer clear of that. Yet he was skeptical. His salient sixth sense kept rehearsing the odds of tossing his hampered haste aside. Probably he was simply obsessed with wanting to kill

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