Vortagg stared the Oracle down, knuckles white upon his sword.
“I seek knowledge of my death, woman. Give me this knowledge.”
The crone’s shoulders slumped. That question never ended well.
“There’ll be a boy born in the village of Torain, and once grown he’ll lead a rebellion against you. Your fortress’ll fall, he’ll slay you, and your head’ll be paraded through the streets on a pike.”
Vortagg left the Oracles cottage, smiling to himself. The boy needed to be dealt with, but it’d wait. He had his answer, and it was good.
The cancer was benign. He would survive it.