"What is your real name?"
Bianor felt an unknown object slither between his ribs. It gently caressed his lungs, baiting a moment of relaxation before inevitably squeezing them.
Bursts of air forcefully escaped through his mouth and nostrils, but nothing could get in. For a few seconds, he was unable to breathe. No matter how hard he tried, the very act of inhaling became an impossibility.
It was excruciating. The suffocation made Bianor's body convulse, and those sudden movements drove the needles that crucified him even deeper into his hands and feet.
These same needles glimmered with malignant symbols as they constantly sucked on his skin, tearing it little by little while draining every drop of blood.
The agony seemed to go on for hours, but Bianor knew it had only been a few seconds. The pressure in his chest gave out, and he finally caught a breath, nearly choking on air.
"I won't repeat myself twice. What is your real name?"
His torturer, Quinctillia Levidis, gazed at him with a nearly unfathomable expression—he could make out hints of pity, a lot of distrust, but mainly, steel-forged resolve.
"M-..." Bianor went into a coughing fit, barely holding onto his voice. "My name... is Bianor of Cebrene. That's the name I always had. M-... My mother is Megare Pythias. My father is Kalchas of Cebrene. I have no siblings. Please... What do you want—"
The unknown object inside his body moved again, scraping against his flesh with what seemed like razor blades. The pain almost made Bianor faint, and he tasted his own blood as it trickled down his mouth.
"What is your occupation? Do you have a family? Any friends?" Quinctillia asked her questions in quick succession, her tone even and disturbingly serene despite the situation.
"I... I have a wife and two sons. We used to be farmers b-but moved to Priene after we lost our third child to illness." Bianor marked a pause, taking the time to enjoy his moments of respite. His breathing was erratic. "I own a bakery near the outer colonnades. Most of my friends are acquaintances from the Western Province. Please, no more. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but I can't handle anymore of this torture..."
Quinctillia's gaze remained stone-cold. She held her chin while closely inspecting Bianor's pain-twisted face. "Are you familiar with the Mysteries?"
Bianor's eyes widened in shock, seemingly giving Quinctillia the desired answer. She nodded to herself, then nonchalantly snapped her fingers.
Something immediately broke the old man's femoral bone. Its brittle, fractured end tore through his flesh and emerged from his thighs.
Throbbing pain washed over him, and he tried to shout, but an unknown force grasped his vocal cords, stifling any sudden sound he tried to make.
"Which Mystery are you working with?" Quinctillia was unfazed. She used the sacred slate of Euphrosyne's temple as a chair, sitting on it with her legs crossed. "How many allies do you have? What is your goal?"
Bianor gritted his teeth, enduring the torment as acceptance of his death slowly settled in his mind. He wasn't going to escape this. The least he could do was challenge it head-on, so he wouldn't dishonor the venerable Grace he worshipped inside her own temple.
"I see resistance in those eyes," Quinctillia picked up on his state of mind. She put her slender fingers over her mouth as if trying to hide her smile. "You may not care about what happens to you at this point... but what about your wife? Your sons? Their family? Do they have one? I sure hope they do."
Under the tormentor's threats, Bianor's resolve wavered. His lips quivered, and he slumped his head down in shame.
"I... I work with the Mekkubal Order. My lands cover a stretch near the western borders. In exchange for letting them cross through unseen and acting as a sponsor for their Hierapetran identities, they pay me handsomely. Most simply ask for work, so I usually send them to various acquaintances in Priene, then help them spread in major cities across the nation."
"I assume those acquaintances are aware of the truth?"
"Yes... most of them, at least. We all own land near the nation's outskirts and close to the western and northern borders. Many of us are from the aristocracy too. We've been securing routes for the Profaners for decades."
"How many have you smuggled inside the country since you started?"
"On my own? Dozens of them. I stopped counting when the Celestial Offering was born eleven years ago. They started coming in droves. It... It was hell to justify their identities. We had to build entire settlements from scratch and bribe a lot of officials."
"Do you have any idea about their plans? Why do they wish to appear as Hierapetrans?"
"I... have no idea. They rarely re-establish contact with us after they're settled. We don't ask about their motivations either. I only learned about magecraft and the Profane Lands' magi from a friend."
Quinctillia raised an eyebrow. "Who is this friend?"
"He's an aristocrat. Pretty famous around here. He was the one that first put me in contact with the Profaners from the Mekkubal Order."
"A name," she insisted.
"... Iphiclus of Priene."
—
Nysa had trouble keeping her expression from shifting. She masked her surprise with a sigh, dismissively ignoring the implication of that uttered name.
Iphiclus told me to interrogate but not listen to anything Bianor says. Is it a scheme to make me dismiss his involvement in all this? No, he didn't have to direct me to this man in the first place. It wouldn't make sense.
She peered into the old man's eyes, hesitating to employ hypnosis magecraft. However, knowledge and experience prevented her from taking such a hasty action.
While practical, hypnosis magecraft had many drawbacks, namely that a much more skilled magus in this field could easily prevent any critical intelligence from being leaked. For example, someone from the Mekkubal Order could have instilled a particular cue in Bianor's mind in advance, threatening to alter or erase his memory the moment he was interrogated by hypnotic means.
Worst case scenario, she would be fed false information and walk right into a trap.
Of course, the cue could have been set to be activated once Bianor was simply asked about a particular subject, but that was highly unlikely. It was a known rule that mystical measures reacted better to triggers of the same kind, especially regarding the human mind. Nysa's choice of using torture and threats—a crude yet effective method—was the right decision as far as she was concerned.
Yes... She nodded to herself. That must've been the reason behind Iphiclus' unusual instruction. My Night Sorceries aren't that adequate for hypnosis magecraft. Without knowing the brand of magecraft the Mekkubal Order employs, it'd be too risky to hypnotize Bianor.
Nysa finally broke her silence, clasping her hands together with the elegance of a highborn. "You've served your purpose well, Bianor of Cebrene. As a tool to another, I deeply thank you for bringing me one step closer to fulfilling my life's goal."
The old man somehow sensed her intent to kill him, and his expression instantly shifted. Despite his earlier bravado, he was far from having accepted his demise—at least not by her hand.
"P—Please! I beg you! I can—... I can tell you more! Ahh—" He flinched when his protruding bones moved, though it didn't stop his erratic movements. "They have a base! Here in Priene! In this very agora!"
Nysa immediately cut off the flow of Mana spilling from under her feet. She raised her chin and looked into his eyes, indicating that he had her attention.
"They...— They run an apothecary in the southern colonnades! It's near the Plateau of Rhapsodes, where the Rivers Danaus and Phanias cross. I swear on my sons that it's true. P—Please, don't kill me."
As soon as Bianor finished his plea, Nysa clasped her fingers into a fist. Her shadow, which had previously slid inside the old man's mouth, wrapped around his heart. It temporarily became tangible, crushing the throbbing organ and instantly ending his life.
His body went limp, slumping forward and threatening to fall if not for the needles pinning his limbs against the wall.
"The southern colonnades, huh?" She thought about the location while her shadow slithered out of Bianor's corpse, regaining its place under her feet. "If true, this information is extremely valuable. I'll need to hold off that thought for the moment, though—"
Nysa extended her hand forward, and ripples immediately appeared throughout the surrounding shadows, like bubbles amidst a seething sea of darkness. Incomprehensible whispers echoed inside the temple, followed by an ominous chill that invested the sacred abode.
Bianor's shadow started moving independently, detaching itself from the conceptual link that tied it to the old man's corpse. It slithered awkwardly against a nearby statue of the Grace of Mirth, still confused about its own sentience.
"—Because the real interrogation starts now."