Page 88 of A Simple Truth

“If this is your twisted attempt to grab more power, you will fail,” Andrias hissed.

My loud, cold laugh echoed off the stone walls.

“Andrias, are you truly that foolish? Have you forgotten who I am?” I motioned with my hand for added theatrics, pulling on his powers just a tad. He would not collapse, yet his lungs would painfully and slowly suffocate, and he wouldn’t utter a word, which was a separate benefit. “If all I wanted was power, I would’ve had it by now,” I said, not hiding the darkness in my eyes. My hold eased and he sharply inhaled. “But for reference, I have no desire to take over your weak armies or your poor rule. This order displeases me just as much as it displeases you. The moment I conclude my investigations, I’ll be gone, letting yourun your armies as you usually do. Though, I would recommend letting fewer Rebels in.” I turned my back to him, marching down the stairs, where Orest and Broderick were now waiting for me.

The dungeons were as miserable as I remembered them; nothing but aged, gray brick and half-burnt torches. The East Hold was just as depressing as its weather, and the never-ending rain was already getting to me. Even here, deep underground, the moisture made its way in as cool drips slithered down the thick walls.

No, I didn’t want to stay here a second longer than necessary. The East Hold had nothing of the grace or beauty of castles, but instead was a stony fortress. Even the name, EastHold,was a direct link to its true purpose: a prison.

Behind the five-foot-thick walls that I now so freely passed were prisoners, kept in complete darkness in tiny, stone cells, neither tall nor long enough to stand or lay. The small, iron doors were welded shut by Destroyer fire, with only a small opening left for plates of food.

I glanced at one particular door; one I had sealed so many years ago. There, the steps were still darker than the others, my raw fire making a profound mark.

Was I twelve? No, perhaps, thirteen. I could still feel my uncle’s hand on my shoulder as I stared the guilty man down, as the door closed shut, and I buried him alive in a stone grave. I couldn’t even remember now who he was or what he had done.

Prison might have been a wrong name for this place. A cemetery was truly what it should’ve been called. Even the sound was dull here, as the clang of my armored boots quieted while I descended further down the stairs until I reached the large double doors.

Unlike the simple slabs of iron that I passed on my way here, these doors were beautifully made, welded to perfection withoutany sign of rust, even in this climate. I pushed the heavy doors wide open, marching into the one room I remembered most in the East Hold.

The torture chambers.

I glanced around. Not a single thing had changed since the last time I was here. Even the dusty, metallic tang of the air was still the same. The grand, out of place chandelier lit up the space well, exposing all manner of equipment and machinery.

The room was truly a twisted masterpiece, though only a few knew of its true purpose; why there were cushioned chairs for spectators, hidden places for scribes, and what those old books, stacked tight on the tall bookshelves, contained.

Torture didn’t require much.

In fact, oftentimes the truth was already laid out in front of you if you knew how to read it, and there were much faster ways of making someone speak than this.

But all of this? It was not made to get answers. This was made for one purpose, and one purpose only. In secret, behind the large, iron doors, deep underground, occurred something much more sinister than torture. This was where the Truth Tellers were made. At least, they used to be, until my uncle stopped the practice.Officially.

This was also where my own birth mother spent her adolescence. Though my uncle was unaware, in her rare moments of clarity, she’d told me about it. My eyes darted to the red leather straps on the chair, unbuckled. Even on her deathbed, she never stopped mumbling about them. In fact,they were a perfect shade of burgundywere her last words. The shade obtained from soaking in years of innocent blood.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I taunted, looking at Andrias's three bloodied soldiers. I took a seat at a purposefully-placed chair, facing them. They were on their knees, tied up, and beatentoo. Orest and Broderick stood behind me, silently awaiting my order.

“I believe we’ve met before.” I smirked at Andrias’s Second. His black eye was terribly swollen, blocking him from seeing me. I tilted my head and stared at the other two. Their eyes were laced with fear and panic.

I held in a snarl. Right there was already a truth, and I hadn’t even started.

Have some honor,I wanted to tell them.

One would know about honor, torturing innocent men,my stained consciousness countered.

But I didn’t dismiss that thought, letting it linger for a minute. I leaned back in my chair, curiously assessing which one of them would beg first.

Perhaps the one with the longer hair; he seemed like the begging kind. They would all beg eventually. After the first one broke, it'd be mere minutes until they all crumbled down. So, picking the right one to brutalize first was half the task and perhaps, the most annoying part of torture. That, and cleaning the blood from underneath your nails.

“Shall we begin, boys?” I tersely smiled at them, pulling off my armored sleeves and setting them on the table nearby with a loud clunk. The large, iron doors creaked as Orest and Broderick closed them shut. The tomblike silence was a precursor to the sound of death that was about to begin.

I slowly descended into the Numb until my thoughts quieted, and my feelings settled.

What was honor, anyway, other than a weak man’s justification for their inability to do what was required?I finally replied to my bleeding conscious.

Their innocent lives, their deaths, were just another move in my costly game.

My armor scatteredon the stone floor of my room was yet to be cleaned, splattered with the dried blood of the now-dead Destroyers. Perhaps, it was the aftermath of the Numb, or just the lingering consequences of my choices, but I spent hours in my copper bathtub, feeling utterly empty, scrubbing my skin raw and still feeling dirty. The world seemed so small and so overwhelmingly large all at the same time.

Perhaps it was just sheer misery, but as the minutes passed, I found myself with a pen and a paper once again.

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