"I don't," Saladin said bluntly.
His voice was adamant. There wasn't a flicker of hesitation in his golden, slitted pupils as he spoke, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Murphy's slitted pupils reflected Saladin's stubborn, scale-covered face. His lips pulled back in a grin, revealing a row of sharp dragon teeth. "Good boys don't lie."
'Good boy?'
Saladin had drunk Divine Blood three thousand years ago. Back when he was charging into the fray under Orestes, this modern Wizard's great-great-great-grandfather had probably not even climbed down from the trees yet.
But he didn't say it out loud, merely snorting coldly. "It's the truth. I was severely injured three thousand years ago and have been slumbering ever since. I know nothing of recent events. Information about my companions? Even if I did know anything, it would be from three thousand years ago. What use is that now?"
