Page 89 of Heart Cradle
Eiran stepped inside, the cell door clanged shut behind him.
“Do you know,” he said quietly, each word measured, “that you nearly killed my mate?”
The prisoner whimpered, lowering his head. “I didn’t know… who she was. I was just told… ”
Eiran crouched, bringing them eye level. His voice remained calm. “Then tell me now. If you want death, earn it with truth. What magic did you use? What did you do to us all in Haleth?”
The man twitched, flinching at the memory. “It wasn’t mine,” he muttered. “It was… given to me. A necromancer… one of them, willed… it to me. Said I w-wouldn’t need training. Just… obedience.”
Eiran’s jaw tightened. “What was the spell?”
“I don’t know the n-name,” the prisoner whispered. “And I… I can’t speak of the caster. There’s a b-binding… in blood. Every time I try to… to say his name, I’m wracked with pain.”
“Fuck your loyalty,” Eiran snapped.
The prisoner coughed, blood flecking his teeth. “You think we want this?” he rasped, fury fuelling resolve. “None of us c-chose Vargen.Avelan… it’s shackled. The Pale Court keeps us s-starving. Scared. Indentured from birth. You serve, or you vanish… that’s the choice.”
Eiran’s eyes narrowed.
“They withhold food… magics rationed. Even air feels… b-borrowed.” He sagged against the wall, wrists raw against the suppression cuffs. “We survive despite h-him.”
“Try,” Eiran said coldly.
The man opened his mouth, and gagged. A fine line of blood ran from his nose. “I told you,” he gasped. “Kill a-any female fighting… fighting with the Melrathen royals. No names or d-descriptions. Just… any.”
Eiran surged to his feet, voice a snarl. “Any female? You nearly carved my mate in half and you shattered our fucking minds before you drove the blade in.”
“I didn’t know!” the prisoner cried, hunched and broken. “They didn’t tell m-me who… they never have!”
Silence fell, then came a whisper from the prisoner. “Do you k-know what they had to do to… conjure that magic? They… brought my daughters and my w-wife. They… they killed them in front of me. Said if I didn’t take the magic, if I didn’t use it, they’d raise them as something else and make me w-watch. I have n-no one left.” He sobbed, “send m-me to my girls… please.”
Eiran didn’t speak. He’d begun circling, footsteps soft on stone, pausing behind the man.
“Do you have anyone left?” he asked, voice unreadable.
The prisoner shook his head. “No one.”
Eiran drew a dagger from his belt, slow and silent. “Then you may join them,” he said, slitting the man’s throat in one clean motion.
The body slumped forwards with a soft thud. Eiran stood over him for a long moment. Then he turned, blood dripping from the blade, and left the cell without a sound.
The main interrogation chamber was cold, low-lit. Stone floors stained darker in places where blood had long since dried into the cracks. Shackles hung unused on the back wall. A table in the centre overflowed with parchment, prisoner files, half-emptied mugs of water, and the lingering stench of despair.
Eiran stepped through the iron door, wiping his blade clean on a bloodied cloth before sheathing it. Blood soaked the front of his leathers, some dried, some fresh. His jaw was set, breathing controlled, but his eyes burned.
Calen stood with arms crossed and his usual quiet warmth had cooled to frost. Fenric leaned against the far wall, one boot braced against stone, idly flipping a dagger in his fingers. No smirk, just a simmering, controlled ferocity.
“He talked,” Eiran said.
Calen cocked his head. “Sounded like it.”
Eiran didn’t rise to the bait. “Pain magic. Necromancer work, direct to the brain. He didn’t need to cast it. Just… will it forwards.”
“Willed pain,” Fenric muttered. “Horrifying… very Pale Court.”
“Blood-binding,” Eiran said. “He couldn’t name who gave it to him. Couldn’t even describe the necromancer without bleeding.”
Calen’s face hardened. “So he was bound to silence. Who was the target?”
