The next day arrived with a grim chill in the air, as if the winds themselves carried the tension of unresolved truths. Deep in the castle's dungeons, the atmosphere was heavy, the flickering torchlights casting shadows on the stone walls.
The knights stood in a semi-circle, their eyes darting nervously toward the Queen, who stood at a distance, her presence a force in itself. Her deadly glare bore into the backs of the bandits seated on the cold floor. They were battered and bruised but still firm, their lips sealed, not ready to talk despite the relentless interrogation.
One of the knights stepped forward, his voice sharp and commanding. "You stole a document from the politician's house. Who did you deliver it to?"
The bandits exchanged glances but said nothing, their silence an act of defiance—or fear.
"Speak!" The knight slammed his hand against the stone table, making the torches flicker.
