Content warning! This chapter contains blood and violence.
...
Nicolaus strode through the ship's dimly lit passages. His clenched jaw and the fiery glint in his narrowed eyes spoke volumes.
His presence exuded an air of danger, and the subtle release of his pheromones in his wake hinted at his simmering anger.
Someone, with the audacity that left him seething, had managed to slip bad-quality goods into the shipment of valued fabric he intended to sell to the House of Renard.
It had never happened before. He only had a handful of cases when thieves stole his goods.
'But this is different.'
This was a deliberate and calculated attempt to tarnish his business, staining his otherwise unblemished track record.
Of course, he would be furious.
The betrayal cut deep, for it had implications far beyond a single deal. Reputation was everything in the world of trade, and Nicolaus' father built this empire on a foundation of trust and quality.
To have someone deliberately sabotage that reputation was an act of treason, Nicolaus could not let slide.
Besides this act, Rafte also assumed this suspect had stolen a bag of high-quality fabrics. There had been a report of the suspect sneaking around the ship, and had noticed that the suspect's clothes were bulging with something suspiciously.
Nicolaus walked past a knight stationed by the door, his armor gleaming in the dim light. The knight nodded respectfully to Nicolaus, who grunted in acknowledgment, his mind consumed by thoughts of retribution.
As he continued, his anger and determination grew with each step. He descended the dark, damp, narrow stairs, his footsteps echoing. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and stale air. Muffled whimpers reached his ears as he ventured deeper.
Nicolaus reached the bottom of the stairs and found himself in the dungeon, a grim chamber barely illuminated by a few flickering torches.
The wooden walls were damp and moldy, and the floor was marred by a layer of filth that spoke of the misery.
Within the dungeon's confines stood a solitary cell, its heavy iron bars a testament to the darkness. Beyond the cell, a gruesome array of torture implements hung ominously, each bearing the stains of past suffering.
Nicolaus' eyes narrowed as they fell upon the lone occupant of the cell, the suspected perpetrator of this vile act. The figure huddled in the dim light, their clothes stained and disheveled.
He walked to the suspect's cell and stopped. The suspect was sitting on the wet floor. He was shackled to the wooden wall. He looked up at Nicolaus, his eyes widening in terror.
"M, Marquess," the suspect stammered. His face bore the painful marks of a recent beating. It looked like even Rafte had struggled to contain his anger when he discovered the suspect. "I, I can explain, m, my lord!"
Nicolaus didn't say a word. He just stood there; his cold, golden eyes bore into the man, revealing nothing of his thoughts or intentions.
"I, I, I didn't do it," the suspect pleaded, desperation lacing his voice. "Please, my lord! I swear!"
Nicolaus' smile, devoid of warmth or mercy, sent a shiver down the suspect's spine. "We'll see about that," he said cryptically before turning and exiting the cell.
A torturing table in the dungeon's center, its surface adorned with a grim assortment of tools, each designed to inflict agony and extract confessions. With a disturbing familiarity, Nicolaus approached the table.
Rafte, sensing the impending trial, acted swiftly. He entered the cell, his expression unaffected as he unshackled the suspect from the wall.
"I, I, I'm sorry, Mister Rafte!" the suspect pleaded. "Forgive me! P, Please give me a second chance!"
He heeded no mind of the suspect's cries. He aimed to secure him firmly to a wooden chair perilously close to the torturous array.
The suspect's arms were quickly bound to the chair's arms, and his ankles followed suit. Rafte's hands moved efficiently.
He knew all too well that he must vacate the dungeon before Nicolaus selected one of the dreaded instruments of torment.
With haste, Rafte made his exit, his heart pounding as he moved swiftly through the damp, narrow stairs. He couldn't bear to be present when the torturous proceedings began.
He had witnessed the Marquess' wrath before and had even fainted once from the intensity of the pheromones that accompanied it.
Each time, Rafte remembered that, inside the confined dungeon, the pheromones seemed to hang in the air like a noxious cloud. They were thick and oppressive, making each breath a laborious effort.
Rafte knew he needed to escape before he would experience their suffocating grasp once again.
Rafte stood beside the knight guarding the door when he finally made it out. Just in time before, the distant, chilling clatter echoed from the dungeon's depths, signaling the beginning of a ruthless pursuit of the truth.
Back to Nicolaus, his fingers trailed over the tools. His eyes settled on a wooden mallet, its smooth surface belying the degree it could inflict.
With the door securely sealed behind Rafte, Nicolaus turned to the trembling suspect, who cowered in the chair.
"I'm only gonna give you one chance to come clean," Nicolaus declared, his voice as unyielding as the storm that battered the ship's hull. "Who meddled with my cargo?"
A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the howling sounds of the ship as it swayed precariously over the tumultuous waves during the storm.
"I, I did," the suspect finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"So, you were lying earlier."
Nicolaus' gaze narrowed as he studied the wooden mallet in his hand, anger simmering just below the surface. He placed it back onto the sturdy wooden table with a careful motion, his patience wearing thin.
"Why?" he demanded, knowing full well that this sabotage couldn't have been the work of a lone individual. There had to be a puppet master behind it, orchestrating a scheme to tarnish Nicolaus' business.
"I, I was ordered to, my lord!"
Nicolaus' eyes glinted when he got the answer he wanted. He retrieved a pair of sleek black gloves from his pants pocket, pulling the wooden mallet into his hand again, before stepping closer to the quivering suspect.
"By whom?" Nicolaus pressed, his voice a low, compelling murmur.
This time, the suspect did not utter a word, his eyes wide with terror, unwilling to reveal the identity of the puppeteer who controlled his strings.
However, Nicolaus, determined to extract the information he needed, released a stream of his pheromones.
The color drained from the suspect's face as he absorbed the powerful pheromones, their weight pressing down his shoulders like an oppressive force.
Nicolaus' jaw clenched as he continued with a threat, "If you're not going to talk, I won't hesitate to dislocate your fucking knee with this mallet. I will tenderize your fucking flesh, pound on it relentlessly until your leg falls off your thigh."
His words were nearly suffocating as the oppressive pressure inside the dungeon. It painted a gruesome picture of the future that awaited the suspect.
In his heightened state of fear and anxiety, the suspect lost control, and his body betrayed him as he involuntarily urinated in his pants.
And yet, his lips remained sealed; he could not reveal the identity of his employer.
"Very well," Nicolaus conceded, feigning a sigh with an air of resignation. He muttered, seemingly frustrated, "If that's how you want to play it."
The suspect flinched in fear, realizing the consequences of his silence as the interrogation took an alarming turn.
Nicolaus' gloved hand clenched tightly around the handle of a wooden mallet, the sound of leather tightening into a fist sent a sinister sound inside the dungeon.
With a swift, Nicolaus raised the weapon above his head, muscles tense and ready. Then, with a controlled movement, he brought it down forcefully onto the suspect's knee, the impact resonating through his entire body.