The rogue did not beg.
That, more than anything, told Killan what kind of man they were dealing with.
He was restrained—not carelessly, not cruelly, but thoroughly. Iron bound his wrists, reinforced with chains that had been tested against stronger men than this one. A chair had been brought, though he had not been given the dignity of sitting in it properly. One knee remained forced to the stone, his posture held in place by two guards who did not loosen their grip.
Blood had been cleaned from his face.
Not out of mercy.
Out of necessity.
Killan wanted to see him clearly.
The chamber was quiet, removed from the rest of the palace. No windows. No distractions. Only stone, torchlight, and the steady presence of those who understood what this moment required.
