The interrogation chamber was cold.
Not from the weather. From him.
Caelion stood over the bound man, his movements precise, unhurried. The knife in his hand turned slowly, catching the torchlight. The prisoner's face was swollen, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with the particular terror of a man who had realized too late that he had never known fear before this moment.
Caelion had been asking about the artifact. About the queen's network. About who in the palace was feeding information to his enemies.
The man had been about to break.
Then Caelion's hand stopped mid-motion.
The knife hovered in the air, its blade slick with blood, its tip pressed against the prisoner's throat. The man's eyes were wide, his chest heaving, his body trembling from hours of pain.
But Caelion was not looking at him.
His gaze had gone distant. Unfocused. His green eyes stared at something the others could not see. Something beyond the stone walls, beyond the palace, beyond the city itself.
