Time felt meaningless before the Inquisitor's interrogation. They never seemed to tire of hearing my voice, be it honest answers or screams. Occasionally, while the elder was taking notes, Emery, the apprentice, would grow bored, and take it out on me. She used all sorts of weak spells to torment me. Occasionally, after a particularly successful attempt, judged only by my expressions of pain, she would report excitedly to her mentor, who would roll his eyes.
By the time he finally snapped his notebook shut, blood streamed from countless wounds on my body, running down my bare form and splattering in fine drops upon the white floor. Where my skin wasn't stained crimson, it was bruised and broken, discolored with hideous blotches of yellow and purple. My soul fared no better, the constant stimulation leaving me hovering on the borders of unconsciousness.
"Well done, Emery," the mentor said, ruffling her hair.
