* * *

  “Look, I want to believe you, Englihavt. I really do. The only part that isn’t adding up, is the archive.”

  Before Roskvir could reply, the interrogator lodged another knife in his back. He jerked against the restraints on his wrists and ankles.

  “Told you already,” Roskvir gasped. “She wanted to know about—”

  “Yes, we know that. Don’t waste time.”

  The blade sliced downward, severing ribs from his spine.

  “...But the archive guards said you approached them alone. If you only cooperated with the native because she was forcing you along under threat, why didn’t you alert those guards to the problem, when she wasn’t there to intervene?"

  “Her sjael was… too powerful… even from afar… she could’ve—”

  Roskvir’s words turned into a choked gurgling, and he coughed up blood.

  “Hm. Must’ve nicked a lung on that last one. Keep him going a bit longer, Signy, but don’t mend the ribs just yet”

  The medic stepped forward. Delirious with pain, still Roskvir sensed her sjael manifest. Rather than the warmth of a typical healer, her aura was dispassionate, almost disgusted. And though it let him breathe again, the sensation of her power reconstructing his torn flesh was a torture all its own.

  “So you’re telling me that this native was monitoring the whole situation, somehow ready to kill you the instant she thought something amiss? All while the archive guards never saw her?”

  “You weren’t—”

  The interrogator turned the knife, then pulled, twisting one of the severed ribs out of his back.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “You… weren’t… there…” Roskvir grit, between the sharpest peaks of agony. “The right move… wasn’t clear… yes, the native was… very strong. You all felt her, didn’t you? Minutes after…”

  “There’s still no evidence that was the same person.”

  “At the archive… I was still deciding… waiting for the time… for an opening. I took it… only when I found it… later.”

  “Because you’ve always been a loyal servant of Albion, hmm?”

  “Yes—”

  The interrogator twisted out the next rib.

  “I have! I have…never once wanted… to betray…”

  “I know, I know. You’ve been very convincing with that line. I’ll give you that, Englihavt: you're sticking to your story, so far. Unfortunately, that just means we're going to have to come back to all this unpleasant poking and prodding another day, until we really figure out the truth. Because the problem is, you did end up betraying Albion, at least a little bit, whether you really wanted to or not. And just to be sure of your loyalties in the mean time, we’re gonna have to finish up with another… session.”

  Roskvir felt the interrogator’s sjael, then. From the corner of his eye, behind him, he could see the thin, yellow-green needle, the color of bile.

  “No… no, please…”

  “Keep his head still.”

  The medic’s hands gripped his temples like a vice.

  “No!”

  Roskvir clenched shut his eyes, as the interrogator aligned his totem. He’d long since learned to manage physical pain, but that…

  If it takes all else, please… let me remember her.

  It punctured the back of his skull, then. He writhed, overwhelmed by a torment impossible to produce with tools of mere steel: the pain of his very soul warring with the intrusion, as it cauterized his innermost essence. As it pressed deeper into his brain, and he felt himself change.

  But then, suddenly, the pain was gone.

  And not just the pain. Discomfort vanished, save for a slight annoyance that he couldn’t move his arms or legs.

  A healer was mending some of his injuries, he realized vaguely. It wasn’t the first time, either.

  He was glad. That was kind of her.

  She’d done the same just a minute ago. He hadn’t felt nearly as grateful for it back then, he remembered, but he’d no idea why.