WARNING: This chapter contains violence and torture. Reader discretion is advised.
In the stifling darkness of the room, a man, his limbs bound in an unforgiving iron cross, wailed in excruciating torment as a nail was ruthlessly torn from his quivering middle finger.
"ARRGH! Stop! I-I really don't know-- AAARGH!" His cries reverberated off the walls, echoing the agony etched across his contorted face.
His right hand and both feet were tied in chains, rendering him utterly defenseless. Beads of sweat, mingled with tears and blood, traced a path down his trembling body. His left arm hung limply at his side, his strength shattered.
He glanced at his hand and his vision dimmed. It was the second nail torn from him.
Slowly, his body sagged, succumbing to the agony until he lost consciousness.
A loud thud echoed as Caym Fairburne put down the clamping tool on the table. "Wake him up," he commanded, voice cold.
Swiftly, a knight rushed forward, a metal bucket of icy water in hand. With practiced precision, he poured the frigid liquid over the tortured man, jolting him back to the grim reality of his pain-soaked existence.
"I... I know nothing..." he stammered, his voice barely audible amidst gasps for air. "Please..." The suspect's plea hung in the air, mingling with the silent tears trickling down his cheeks. "Please... just end it..."
Caym regarded the man with a chilling indifference, his icy stare unwavering. Slowly, he raised his right hand and uttered a single word, "Scissors."
In an instant, a knight sprang into action, retrieving a pair of large, rusty scissors with jagged blades. With trembling hands, he offered the weapon to Caym, his head bowed and body quivering under the weight of the moment.
The man trembled uncontrollably as he watched Caym pick up the scissors and meticulously wipe them with a cloth. "P-please spare me..." he pleaded, his voice barely audible.
Ignoring the desperate pleas, Caym continued wiping the scissors with a calculated calmness. "Have you ever seen a butcher use scissors before?" he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
The man gasped, his stomach twisting into knots. He felt an overwhelming urge to vomit, yet there was nothing left inside him. "P-please... I... Please..." he whimpered, his words barely coherent as he clung to the last shreds of hope.
"Whether you swore an oath to remain silent or if your family is being held hostage, rest assured I will extract the answers I seek," Caym declared, his voice devoid of emotion. "I am already deeply displeased that Count Braille met his end before I could glean any information from him. If you choose to remain silent, you will bear the brunt of his intended suffering."
A heavy silence settled over the room, pressing down on everyone present. Even the knights shifted uncomfortably, their faces twisted in revulsion. The only audible noise was the eerie creaking of rats in the shadows.
"Regrettably, you are denied the luxury of a peaceful death," Caym continued, his tone unwavering. "You will languish in the oubliette, where rats and maggots will feast on your flesh in the darkness. Shouldn't you endure just as much agony as the countless lives you've taken?"
In that moment, Winston Wilde regretted every moment he clung to life. Any place, anywhere else, would be a more merciful setting for his demise than this wretched, damp dungeon. Anywhere without Caym Faiburne.
"Stretch his fingers."
Caym's command hung heavy in the air, sending a chill down the spines of the knights who hesitated.
The knights exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of how to proceed. "P-pardon?" one of them stammered, their hands hovering above Winston's trembling fingers. They couldn't help but wonder which one of them would have to bear the gruesome task.
Hector stepped forward with a weary expression etched on his face, his eyes meeting the knights' briefly before he sighed in resignation. "Haiyst. Move away," he muttered. He placed a gentle hand on the suspect's trembling shoulder, his touch an odd juxtaposition against the impending brutality.
"Which finger means the most to you, Mr. Winston?" Hector's voice, though soft, cut through the heavy silence of the room. "Your thumb, perhaps? Or maybe," he added, his tone turning bitter, "the one bearing your wedding ring? It seems fitting, doesn't it?"
In the room's suffocating atmosphere, the question hung like a poisoned dagger, waiting to strike. Winston's eyes widened with horror, the weight of his situation sinking in deeper.
"Why let him pick when we can cut them all?" Caym's voice dripped with a chilling indifference as he finally put down the cloth he was using to wipe the scissors. He stepped closer, his eyes locked onto Winston, devoid of any shred of mercy. "This is going to take long. But it won't kill you. Maybe."
In that moment, Winston felt his heart pounding in his chest, each beat echoing like a drum of impending doom. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer – these were not knights before him; they were monsters, wearing the guise of men.
"Ah... Ah... Ahh!" he bawled, his voice cracking with desperation. "I will speak! I will speak! Please... Let me die fast.. Please..." His words were a desperate plea for mercy, an anguished prayer to whatever gods might be listening, begging for a swift end to his suffering.
"Speak," Caym commanded, his tone as cold as steel, and the room seemed to constrict with the weight of the tension.
Winston took a shuddering breath, summoning his strength. "I... I encountered them at Levoras Mountain two years ago... My family trades there..."
"The Levoras Mountain? That is far east, bordering Soklova," Caym pondered. "Has the Loragian influence truly extended that far?"
Tilting his head slightly, Caym's jaw clenched, adding weight to the room's already thick tension. He sighed, the sound heavy with impatience. "And why did you find yourself frequenting Count Braille's mansion?" he demanded.
"I... I merely delivered boxes to the Count," Winston stammered.
"And?" Caym's tone grew sharper, impatience lacing his words. "I have little patience for short answers, Mr. Winston."
Winston cast his eyes downward, his words tumbling out. "I wasn't allowed to see the contents... They sent me only when I was in the capital... using random strangers, children, or beggars to pass me a handkerchief... discreetly paid, I believe... They... they were meticulous..." He hesitated, then looked up, meeting Caym's unsatisfied gaze. He took a dry gulp and continued. "The handkerchiefs bore symbols... I... I do not know what they mean... All I had to do was engrave some symbols onto brushes for the Count... based on the piece of paper they gave me before hand... That... that was our only agreement..." The words hung heavily in the air, each one dripping with the weight of the secrets he had been forced to carry.
"Hmm... Agreement?" Caym asked, leaning on a nearby table, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"They... they... they offered me a medicine for my sick wife," Winston stammered, his voice quivering under the weight of guilt. "I don't know where it's from, but it cured her... I knew they sounded suspicious. I tried my best to trace it, but... no one... no one knew its origin. I had no choice..."
Caym furrowed his brows, his face contorted with a mix of anger and disdain. "So, you chose your wife over the hundreds of innocents who died because of your useless rebellion?" he spat out.
Winston scoffed, his brows furrowing as he met Caym's gaze. "I'm not a hero like you, Caym Fairburne... I'm a coward... but... I'm willing to sacrifice anyone... for the one I love..."
Caym's glare grew icy. His fingers clenched around the scissors, their sharp edges glimmering ominously in the dim light. "Sacrifice anyone for the people you love?" he asked, his voice laced with a simmering anger that sent shivers down the listener's spine.
Hector, sensing the escalating tension, swiftly intervened, his voice steady yet reassuring. "Your wife is safe in a guarded house outside the capital now, Winston."
"Wife? Violeta? She... she should have left Sylvania..." Winston's voice wavered, his eyes filling with a sudden surge of hope.
"She came back for you. How else did you think we found you?" Hector replied casually, nonchalantly picking dirt from under his fingernails.
"She..." Winston's voice caught in his throat as tears of relief streamed down his cheeks.
"Don't worry, we discovered she knew nothing, so we're keeping her safe," Hector reassured him, his tone oddly detached. "You, on the other hand... well, you know what you did."
As Winston began to cry in a mix of relief and guilt, Caym wordlessly placed the scissors back on the table and picked up a cloth to wipe his hands. He walked towards the door without uttering a word, leaving the rest of them inside the room, only Winston's cries echoing in the room.
Soon, Fredrick entered the room, his eyes following the path of the prisoner being led back to his cell. He approached Hector, his expression filled with curiosity and concern. "Lieutenant, forgive my curiosity, but you must have known the merchant would confess if you claimed to have his wife. Why was the torture conducted? This doesn't seem like the Grand Commander's usual method," the knight inquired.
Hector's gaze fixated on the door through which Caym had departed. "Hmm.. Don't ask me lad. Go back to your work," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.