Thorne's face turned from a mottled red to a ghostly, sallow pale as the High Shaman's words stripped away the last delusion of his self-righteousness.
For decades, he had believed himself a master puppeteer operating in secret, pulling strings and controlling the whole tribe, waiting for the day to strike and get it all.
To realize that his survival had not been the result of his cunning, but rather a deliberate, pitying mercy from the very woman he had always thought was playing right in his palms, hurt his pride more than any pain he had ever experienced.
He staggered back half a pace, his lips quivering in a silent rage.
For a fraction of a second, his confidence wavered, his eyes darting frantically to the men around him to see if her speech had broken their resolve.
But the shock quickly curdled into a manic, unhinged sneer.
