Ganya couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Hanilke kept locking eyes with him the way she did. Her gaze was steady, unblinking—almost unnerving in its intensity. He shifted on his feet, suddenly very aware of how stiffly he was standing. “What is it with these foreigners?” he muttered inwardly, doing his best to break eye contact without seeming rude—or afraid.
Around them, the guards moved with quiet efficiency. The clink of glass and the soft slosh of water signaled the next part of the ritual: the prisoners were handed drinking cups, condensation clinging to the sides from the cool liquid within. It was a small but deliberate gesture of civility amid the dim and dreary confines of the dungeon.
Once both prisoners had finished eating and drinking, Asterion clapped his hands softly and beamed, his voice bright with satisfaction. «Splendid! I’m delighted you enjoyed your meal!» he said, his tone warm and theatrical. «And now that your bellies are full and your thirst is quenched—well, now we can finally talk!» He took a dramatic pause. «You see, in our little corner of the world, it’s only polite to sit and share a few words after a good meal. A tradition, if you will. A chance to digest—not just the food, but the company.»
With a fluid, practiced motion, the High Inquisitor gave a subtle gesture and at once Evdok and the inquisitorial officer inside Max’s cell stepped forward to obey. They motioned for the prisoner to rise, guiding him out of the cell. Their boots echoed against the stone floor as they moved past Hanilke’s cell, her sharp eyes following them in silence, and then vanished down the narrow, dimly lit corridor that twisted deeper into the dungeon. Moments later, the remaining inquisitor emerged from the elven prisoner’s cell, giving her a final
glance before stepping out. Ganya, now alone in the immediate vicinity, was quick to shut and lock the cell behind him. Without a word, the officer fell into step behind Arcadia and the rest of the escort, his presence swallowed by the shadows.
Asterion lingered only a moment longer. He approached Ganya with a breezy air, then paused, placing a firm, almost fatherly hand on the young cadet’s shoulder. There was warmth in the gesture, though it felt strangely misplaced amid the cold stone and iron bars. «Hold the fort,» he said, voice light with mirth. And with that, the High Inquisitor turned and strode after the others.
The interrogation chamber was a stark contrast to the forced conviviality of the meal just moments prior. Shadows clung to the damp stone walls, and the air was thick with the scent of old dust and burnt oil. The only source of light came from a sputtering gas lantern suspended just above the center of the room—its placement so low that Max instinctively ducked as he was guided beneath it.
They sat him at a desk, plain and scarred from years of use. Across from him, Asterion took his place with the ease of a man stepping onto a familiar stage. His pristine uniform and polished demeanor stood out sharply in the gloom. The rest of the inquisitorial escort remained on their feet, forming a broad semicircle behind him—silent, watchful, and impassive. Only Evdok broke the line, positioning himself quietly to the side, where he could observe both the prisoner and the proceedings without interfering.
Yet, for all the gloom and rigid formality, Asterion remained untouched by the weight of the setting. If anything, he now seemed even more invested—eager, even—to begin a conversation. «Right then, Max,» he said. «Let’s have a little chat, shall we? That is, of course, if you’re willing—no pressure, I promise!» He gave a short laugh and leaned in slightly. «You’d be helping me out a great deal, you know. The sooner we sort this out, the sooner I can go home to my wife. And I’m sure the good men behind me would like to see their families tonight, too.» He paused, his gaze locking with Max’s—encouraging, expectant. «So, go on. Tell me about yourself. No need to make me drag it out of you.»
Meanwhile, outside the interrogation chamber, Ganya lingered in uneasy silence. His hands hung idly at his sides, fingers twitching every now and then with restless energy he couldn’t quite dispel. He kept casting furtive glances toward Hanilke’s cell, though he tried not to make it obvious. “If only I spoke Prestorean…” The thought returned to him for what felt like the hundredth time. He’d never had the chance to study it properly—never needed to, until now. And even if he had, what good would it have done? She was deaf. The realization left him with a quiet, gnawing frustration he couldn’t shake. Words were useless in this strange silence they both inhabited.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about her. He didn’t understand why, but something about Hanilke had gripped his attention from the start. And now, with nothing but the ticking of time between them, Ganya found himself secretly hoping for a sign—any sign—that she might acknowledge him, break the silence, reach across the invisible gulf that separated them.
“Just do something,” he thought. “Anything.”
