Elira approaches the bound Waira with clinical efficiency that would be admirable if applied to healing rather than causing harm. She tests restraints with thorough attention to detail, ensuring immobilization without circulation loss. Professional work that maintains subject viability for extended questioning.
"Name?" she asks conversationally.
"Servant of truth," comes the fevered reply. "Instrument of purification. Tool of the source who cleanses weakness from the world."
"Your real name."
"Names are attachments. Attachments are weakness. I am what I must be to serve the cure."
The response carries absolute conviction despite obvious madness. He genuinely believes identity is corruption, that selfhood must be sacrificed to achieve ideological purity.
Elira exchanges glances with Kaerith—communication that excludes Lyssa and me completely. Then she produces small knife from her pack, testing the edge against her thumb until blood beads bright red.
"Let's discuss your service," she says with voice carrying patient interest. "Starting with how you found us."
"The source shows all who truly listen. Your weakness calls across distances. Your disease infects the wind itself." The captive's eyes follow the knife with mixture of anticipation and religious ecstasy. "You think love makes you strong, but it only makes you visible to those who understand truth."
Without warning, Elira draws the blade across his forearm—shallow cut that opens skin without damaging muscle. The infected Waira's response is immediate and telling: not pain, but disappointment that the cut isn't deeper.
"He wants it," I realize aloud. "Pain confirms his beliefs somehow."
"Suffering purifies," the captive agrees with satisfaction. "Agony burns away delusion. The source teaches this truth to all who accept his guidance."
Elira pauses, studying his reaction with growing understanding. Then she sets the knife aside and produces different tool—thin metal rod heated in our fire until it glows cherry red.
"Let's try positive reinforcement instead," she says with smile that carries no warmth.
The session continues for an hour. Each question met with fevered recitation of ideology. Each answer revealing more about The Curse's effects on individual psychology. Each technique teaching Elira methods that have nothing to do withgathering intelligence and everything to do with perfecting control.
By the end, she's learned to break through religious madness using approaches that target identity rather than inflicting physical pain. Systematic psychological dismantling that strips away ideological protection to reveal terrified creature beneath.
The captive weeps when she finishes, not from pain but from loss of certainty that provided structure to his existence.
"Please," he whispers. "Let me believe again. I need the source. I need the cure. I can't exist without purpose."
Elira studies him with clinical interest. "Fascinating. Remove ideology and the personality collapses entirely. Complete dependency on external framework for basic psychological coherence."
She's taking notes. Mental documentation for future application.
The killing, when it comes, happens with brutal efficiency that exceeds tactical necessity by significant margin.
Kaerith approaches the broken captive with measured pace that suggests deliberate savoring rather than simple execution. No urgency. No regret. Just purposeful movement toward conclusion he's been anticipating throughout the interrogation.
"Wait," I begin, though I'm not certain what alternative I want to propose.
"For what?" Kaerith asks without stopping his advance. "He's provided all useful intelligence. Maintaining him serves no tactical purpose. Resources are limited."
The logic makes perfect sense while feeling completely wrong. Professional assessment that reduces living being to cost-benefit calculation.
But it's not the rationalization that disturbs me. It's the expression on Kaerith's face as he kneels beside our captive.
Anticipation. Hunger. Something approaching sexual satisfaction at the prospect of ending life with his own hands.
The infected Waira looks up with eyes that hold desperate hope. "The source will welcome me. My service earns reward. Death brings me closer to perfect understanding."
"No," Kaerith says quietly. "Death just brings silence."
His claws find the base of skull with anatomical precision that ensures instant termination. But he doesn't strike quickly. Instead, he applies pressure gradually, savoring each moment of transition from consciousness to void.
