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The mood in the training room was sombre when Rodin returned. He told the warriors that Chelle was stable, nothing more, then called an early lunch. He grabbed food from the canteen, carried the bowl to his room, and threw himself into his chair.
The food would keep him alive, at least until his body defeated the control.
Ten years. That was the average, Ellya had said. Some lasted fifteen, others were gone in five.
Rodin believed his body was strong. He hardly ever succumbed to illness, and recovered quickly from injuries. So his time was likely to be shorter than most.
Which meant that even if he managed to escape, he’d die. It meant that Daventree’s stupid plan was doomed to eventual failure.
Rodin pushed the lumps of meat around in the bowl, shoved another spoonful int
