No questions. No betrayals. No impossible choices.
But then…Cedric.
Finn gritted his teeth. “You keep asking, like I’ll suddenly grow a conscience that matches yours.” He shook his head. “Not happening.”
Darius’s smile thinned, the edges brittle. “You mistake defiance for integrity, Finnian. But when you break—and you will—it won’t be integrity that remains. Only regret.” Darius lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. “Guards.”
Heavy boots thundered through the chamber as two armored men strode forward, their faces impassive.
“Take him below,” Darius ordered.
A muscle in Finn’s jaw tensed, but he did not resist as the guards seized his arms with grips like iron.
He had expected this. He had known, the moment he spoke, that this path led only to suffering.
But he wouldn’t change a single word. His father hadn’t raised him to become a dog trotting at Darius’s heels.
Darius stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Finn could hear. “You will tell me, eventually,” he murmured, his breath warm and venomous against Finn’s ear. “They all do.”
Finn said nothing.
The guards marched Finn out into the corridor. As they headed down, the air grew colder, the torchlight casting long, shifting shadows against the damp walls.
The lower cells came and went, but the guards did not stop. No, they were taking him beyond the dungeons, to the place where stone swallowed screams. The scent of mildew gave way to something worse: old blood, scorched iron, the acrid sting of burned flesh. It clung to the air like a memory, thick and impossible to ignore.
A final iron-bound door loomed ahead. The guard at Finn’s left stepped forward and lifted the latch. The door groaned open.
A figure garbed in all black awaited them.
The royal torturer stood motionless, hands clasped before him. A heavy hood concealed most of his face, leaving only his mouth visible—a thin, bloodless line, expressionless as a stone.
Finn’s gut churned, but he willed himself not to react.
Chains hung from the walls, rusted dark with old blood. A brazier glowed in the corner, embers pulsing like fireflies, their light licking across a long wooden table lined with knives, pincers, rods—tools of pain honed by experience.
And at the center of it all stood a chair, its wood and iron stained just like the chains.
Darius stepped in behind them. He heaved a long, satisfied breath, surveying the chamber with the enthusiasm of a man admiring fine craftsmanship.
“Ah,” he sighed, “there’s something so very…humbling about a place like this, don’t you think?”
Finn considered keeping his mouth shut. That would be the smart thing to do. But Finn was too angry to do the smart thing. “Isn’t Lunareth known for artistry and architecture?” He lifted a brow. “I expected more from the royal suite of suffering. It’s so monotone.”
Darius’s jaw tightened.
Finn bit back a smirk. A tiny surge of pride warmed his heart. He might be stripped of his sword, but he could still fight.
Darius strode forward, trailing a hand over the interrogation chair’s wooden frame. “This is your last chance, Finnian,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Tell me where Gwenna is. Tell me about the dragon. And all of this?” He gestured lazily to the waiting instruments of torment. “All of this becomes unnecessary.”
Finn’s fists clenched. “I’d rather chew off my arm than give you a single scrap of information,” he said, voice unwavering. “I’ve already given you my answer.”
Darius smiled. “So you have.” He turned to the hooded figure. “Proceed.”
The torturer stepped forward.
The guards wrenched Finn toward the chair, shoving him into the seat. Thick restraints were yanked into place, buckling tight across his wrists, chest, and his legs. Trapped. As helpless as an animal on a butcher’s block.
Panic brewed in his gut. He forced himself to smother it. Anger. Defiance. Anything but fear.
