"The Vint." Hissrad spat out, snarling quietly. The Vint that he could have easily killed. Crushed under his hands and done his duty. Yet he'd stopped, didn't attack, didn't do anything other than grab his axe and leave the room out of--
Well, he'd never admit that he left out of fear. Confusion. Doing that would admit weakness, and Hissrad had none of that.
"If I'd wanted the Vint dead, he'd be dead." That much was true, at least. He still didn't trust whatever magic it was that stuck him in bed without any memories of how he got there, but if it turned out that the Vint was responsible, Hissrad would deal with it. Later.