"So when will you tell us what we want, Silas?" a cold, sinister voice asked him. Silas, chained to a wall in the citadel's dimly lit dungeon, lifted his head weakly to look at his captor.
"I don't know," he answered, his voice rasping as if deprived of water for days. Another person entered the room, his face covered, clad in full black. He carried a tray which he placed on a table beside the strange man questioning Silas. He took a small blade from the tray and turned to Silas. He knew what was going to happen; he had been enduring it every day for the past six months since the citadel fell.
"Our houses were allies once; there is no reason we cannot be allies again. Except this time, we sit on the throne," the hooded man said while the other exited the room, closing the door behind him.
"Where is Erik Ardentis?" he asked in an almost whisper, polishing the small silver blade in his hand. The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, its sharp edge a haunting promise of more pain to come. He stared at Silas, who hung limply from chains attached to the ceiling. Silas's bare chest was covered in a grotesque mosaic of scars, old and new, each telling a story of suffering. His ribs showed through his pale skin, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths.
Silas was stripped of all but his worn, tattered pants. Blood and sweat mingled with the filth on his body, highlighting the bruises that painted his skin in deep purples and sickly yellows. His face was almost unrecognizable, swollen from countless blows, yet his eyes still held a flicker of defiance. The scars on his body festered, some oozing with infection, as if each wound were a slow-burning reminder of his torment. The stench of blood and rot filled the room, a scent that mingled with the metallic tang of the blade. Silas let out a soft groan, a sound that seemed to be more from exhaustion than pain.
"I won't ask again," the man said softly, his voice eerily calm. He stepped closer, the blade catching the light as he moved. He pressed it against Silas's cheek, lightly tracing the edge of a half-healed wound. Silas winced, his body flinching involuntarily, but he remained silent.
"Seems like we need to start in an untouched spot today, don't you think? This will be slow, fun, and painful. I get twenty turns, but I think your silence will break on one. If not, when I'm done, you'll be begging me to cut them off every turn."
He walked to the corner, standing beside the tray of tools, as he knocked on the door. Two gigantic men entered the room and unchained Silas from the wall, instead strapping him to a chair. Silas didn't try to fight them; he knew he was too weak. He had not eaten or drunk anything in days.
"Shall we begin, Lord Silas? Well, you never had a choice anyway," he said in a sinister tone as he walked toward the chair and stooped beside him. He asked once more, despite his earlier warning.
"Where is Erik Ardentis?"
The flickering light did little to chase away the cold, damp air that clung to the stone walls. Silas's gaze roamed over the array of tools, each one more unsettling than the last—rusty blades, grimy chains, and instruments whose purpose was better left unimagined. Unfortunately for Silas, his torturer had a wild imagination, which he used creatively in the many attempts to break him.
"Turn one," the torturer said. He took a pair of pliers from the table, making sure Silas saw them. Silas's throat tightened, the air thick with dread. He forced himself to meet the torturer's gaze, searching for any hint of mercy—or weakness. He held the prince's hand down on the arm of the chair and clamped down on the nail of his index finger, pulling and twisting. Silas's head flew back as the pain shot through his body; his bloodcurdling screams rang through the entire vicinity. His hand trembled as the nail broke away from his skin, leaving his hand covered in blood. Silas's hand quivered from pain as he pressed it against the wooden arm of the chair, his breaths spaced and ragged. Each inhale pushed him closer to his breaking point. His skin was just a futile barrier to the pain, and there was more to come. His torturer lifted his head to meet his eyes.
"It's just a fingernail; it could never hurt that much."
The door creaked open as Valen stepped inside, now clad in the colors of his second family, having forsaken the first. He looked at his brother, then at the torturer, and signaled him to leave. Without a moment's hesitation, he exited the room.
"I can end this, brother. You can rule by my side. Just tell us where Erik is hiding."
"I don't know."
Valen's expression darkened as he stood, silently observing his brother's tortured form—broken, bloodied, yet still defiant. The sight unsettled him. With a slow, deliberate movement, he grabbed a chair from the far corner of the room, dragging it across the cold stone floor. The sound echoed, a haunting reminder of the silence between them. Placing the chair directly in front of Silas, Valen sat down, leaning forward with a pained look in his eyes.
"We're brothers, Silas," Valen began, his voice low but strained, a mixture of desperation and frustration. "I would much rather have you at my side than watch Cregan rip you apart piece by piece. This slow, agonizing death—it doesn't have to happen. Your screams..." His voice wavered for a moment. "They haunt me. It's been four months, brother. End this madness."
For a moment, the silence lingered between them like a ghost of their former bond. But then, a defiant smirk tugged at the corner of Silas's bloodied lips. It was faint but unmistakable. That fire, that unbroken will, was still there. It flickered in his eyes as he spoke, his words dripping with contempt.
"I remember the oaths we took when I was twelve. You swore the same vows before me." His voice was rough, worn from suffering, but the weight of his words cut deep. "You shattered those oaths. You destroyed our house—our legacy. And for what? To serve those who'll betray you in the end? When history remembers you, Valen, it won't be for the throne you seek. It'll be for the ruin you brought. You'll be remembered as the Skyfall—the destroyer."
Silas paused, his chest heaving from the effort. "I couldn't betray Ardentis even if I wanted to. So even if I knew where Erik was hiding, like the coward he may be, I wouldn't tell you."
Valen's face twisted in fury. In a flash, he leapt from his chair, his temper boiling over. His fist connected with Silas's stomach in a brutal punch. Silas doubled over, the air forced from his lungs, a deep, guttural grunt escaping him. He gasped for breath, but his defiant gaze never left Valen's. He straightened slowly, his body quaking from the pain, but still he said nothing.
""When the fated union of Sun and Time gives rise to a son, his legacy will tear the Sun from the sky, casting the world into darkness—this is Skyfall." Valen said silently "I know the prophecy as good as anybody, that will not be me." He shook his head as he exited the room his coat flew gently behind him.
"Leave him for now, Cregan," Valen's voice rang out in the distance, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the dungeon. Silas's head bowed, his spirit crushed as tears welled in his eyes. Never before had he wished for Erik's assistance, but now, in the depths of his despair, he found himself yearning for anyone—anyone at all—to come and rescue him from the torment that felt like it would never end.