Trafalgar waited inside the ruined room with Matteo asleep against the wall and Esmond tied to the chair.
The old man had stopped speaking. His head hung forward, his eyes unfocused, his breathing thin and uneven through bloodied lips. His hands rested where Caelum had left them, fingers trembling in small jerks every few breaths. The potion had repaired the damage enough to keep them attached, useful, sensitive, and that was probably the most Caelum thing Trafalgar had ever witnessed.
A part of him was disappointed by how little Esmond had endured.
A few nails. A few fingers. That had been enough to peel away the old scholar's dignity until there was only begging left. But the physical damage had not been the worst of it. The mana threads had done the real work. They had gone under the skin, into places knives could only dream of reaching, and Trafalgar had seen the exact moment Esmond realized pain had more doors than he knew how to close.
Well. The work was done.
