Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (read me like a book txt) 📕

his actions, or even for an explanation of how it was achieved. You’ve brought him in here to remind him who is in charge and to ensure that he knew that he was yours. You discovered you have a weapon to win the war, and you wanted to make sure it couldn’t turn on you before you could strike the killing blow. Do not waste any more time pretending it is otherwise.”

Jorge’s voice wasn’t raised above a conversational volume, but the severity of his tone, the hardness of each syllable struck the snarling general staff. By the time Jorge had finished speaking, he’d beaten them into submission with the steady hammer strokes of his unyielding words. Silence reigned in the conference room, and Milo failed to keep a smile from creeping across his face as he looked at the glowering officers.

The stillness stretched until Milo lost his confidence and looked at Jorge to see if things had gone too far. The colonel was a veritable bastion of serenity, settled easily into the chair while he looked without fear or challenge at every face before him. Everything about him exuded “Don’t worry, I can wait,” and Milo envied him fiercely for it.

When Ludendorff finally spoke, it sounded harsh and braying, yet there was not the anger Milo might have expected. The most powerful man in the German Empire simply sounded tired.

“Is he trustworthy, Colonel? Is this someone upon whom we can stake the fate of our Empire?”

Jorge met Ludendorff’s eyes and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another man did.

“He’s not even German,” said a tall officer with a curling dark mustache a few seats to the right of Ludendorff. His voice did not echo the guttural noises of his fellow staffers, but there was a sharpness to the simmering baritone that couldn’t be missed. He tapped out a cigarette and nodded at the colonel as he continued.

“I’m sure Jorge had something very eloquent and witty to tell us about this sorcerer's character, but one simple fact remains,” the man continued, turning now to look at Milo with a burning intensity at odds with his otherwise calm features. “He is a Slav, a motherless Russian savage plucked from the streets of Petrograd. Try as he might, he will never be a true German, and as such, he can’t be trusted.”

The back of Milo’s neck prickled as he glared at the officer, a sensation familiar to anyone spotting an enemy for the first time. He’d heard of the Reich, felt their influence, and fought men inspired by them, but now, here, so close to the seat of ultimate power in the German Empire, he met one of their number.

The wizard, having a long experience with bullies and bigots in his relatively short life, narrowed his eyes but bided his time. Now was not the moment when he could strike a meaningful blow.

That didn’t seem to apply to Colonel Jorge, though.

“I don’t believe his parentage was asked about, Mayr,” Jorge remarked dryly. “But I appreciate how you so keenly illustrate that even a very smart man is capable of saying something very stupid if he’s determined to make an ass of himself.”

Mayr’s gaze swung back to Jorge to reply, but the colonel continued in that same even and unstoppable tone of voice. It was like a rhetorical engine driving a verbal spike with an unhurried but undeniable relentlessness.

“General Ludendorff, to answer your question simply, I say yes on both counts,” he said, his eyes meeting those of the addressee with resolution in their depths. “Milo Volkohne has proven himself to have greater honor and virtue than even he realizes, and we both know that is a rare quality in any man worthy of the name. He can be trusted to do what is right, and considering the power he wields, that is the best any of us can hope for.”

Milo knew he would look like a fool, but he couldn’t keep from glancing at Jorge. Something caught in his throat, but his emotional expenditure for the day had drained him for the next decade, so he only regarded his commanding officer with softly dewed eyes.

“But he’s not German,” Mayr pressed, his eloquence beginning to fray as his voice showed the anger in his eyes.

“If you are going to keep repeating yourself, you might want to find something worthwhile to say, Mayr,” Jorge retorted, eyes flashing in the first sign of temper he’d displayed.

Mayr slammed his fist down and prepared to launch into a scathing tirade, but a thick, hoary voice croaked loudly enough across the conference room that nearly everyone jumped at the violence of the exclamation.

“Enough, Mayr!” Ludendorff cried, his eyes boiling in the porridge that was his sweaty face.

Mayr glared at the old man, but after a surreptitious scan of the room, he sank back without another word.

“Very well, Jorge,” the general said after reluctantly turning his gaze back to the colonel. “You will have your way yet again, but remember that the terms are the same as before. Do you understand?

“Perfectly.” Jorge nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Are we free to get back to saving the Empire and ending the war now?”

Ludendorff gave Jorge one more long look and shook his head, a smile working its way across his flabby face.

“Volkohne, report to Colonel Jorge immediately,” the general instructed without bothering to look at Milo. “This special conference of the general staff is hereby dismissed.”

Jorge’s hand once more descended to Milo’s shoulder, and the man drew him into a whispered conference.

“I’ve had an office cleared. We need to talk.”

Milo and Ambrose followed him down the corridors. As unhurried and unflappable as ever, he led them to a room with an ornate brass “7” over the door.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Milo groaned as he looked at the number emblazoned on the door.

“What?” Ambrose asked, following Milo’s eyes to the digit.

What is going on? Imrah whispered.

Milo looked at Jorge, who beamed