The forge had long gone dark for the night, its usual cacophony of hammering and hissing steam replaced by silence. The heavy scent of iron and smoke still clung to the air, mixing with the damp chill of the evening. Harland remained behind, rubbing the soot from his calloused hands with an old rag, taking his time as he locked up.
It had been a long day—orders filled, blades sharpened, and repairs made—but exhaustion had long since stopped bothering him. The ache in his muscles was an old companion, one that reminded him his work was honest, his trade steady.
He stepped away from the forge, exhaling as he stretched his stiff shoulders. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, the merchants long since packed up, the last of the tavern-goers filtering into inns and brothels for the night. The town slept under the dim glow of lanterns, and Harland was ready to do the same.
Then—
A shift in the air.
It was subtle, the kind of thing most men would miss. The way the night seemed to hold its breath, the way the usual rustling of leaves and distant laughter seemed muffled, as though something unseen had swallowed the sound.
A prickle ran down his spine.
Someone was watching him.
Harland grunted, fingers tightening around the heavy iron key. His senses, honed by years of working with fire and steel, told him this wasn't some drunken fool stumbling too close. This was something else.
"If you're looking for work," he called out, voice steady, "come back in the morning."
No answer.
The silence stretched—unnatural, expectant.
Harland turned slowly, his eyes scanning the darkened street, the narrow alleyways where the lamplight didn't reach. His grip shifted, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt. He wasn't a warrior, but he wasn't defenseless either.
Then—
A figure stepped forward.
He emerged from the shadows of the alley with measured ease, his movement smooth, purposeful. Even in the dim torchlight, Harland could see the cut of his frame—broad-shouldered, with a warrior's build, his stance too controlled to be anything but trained. His presence was like the calm before a storm, heavy with something unspoken.
Kastor.
Harland had never seen him before, but he didn't need to. The way the man carried himself, the way his fingers rested lazily on the hilt of his sword—this wasn't just some traveler. This was a man who knew violence like an old friend.
And where one hunter stepped, another followed.
A whisper of movement. A shift in the dark.
Ivara.
She was more shadow than flesh, her presence a cold thing that made Harland's gut tighten in warning. Her cloak moved unnaturally, the edges curling like mist, or perhaps something more alive. She stepped closer, her bare feet soundless against the cobblestones, her scent carrying the damp rot of earth after a storm.
Harland inhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay still.
"We have questions," Kastor said. His voice was even, devoid of any real emotion, as if he had already decided how this conversation would go.
Harland's jaw tightened. His instincts screamed at him to step back, to put something solid between himself and these two. But that would show weakness. And men like this? They thrived on weakness.
So he held his ground.
"And I have a door to get behind," Harland replied gruffly.
Kastor exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly, almost amused.
"Wrong answer."
Harland had barely taken a breath before the first blow landed.
A heavy fist slammed into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs before he had a chance to react. Pain exploded through his ribs as he crumpled to the ground, coughing, wheezing, but refusing to cry out. The dirt was cold beneath him, dust clinging to the sweat on his skin as he struggled to pull breath back into his body.
Kastor gave him no time to recover.
Before Harland could push himself up, the warrior was on him, a solid weight pressing down as Kastor's knee drove into his chest, pinning him to the ground. His breath hitched, ribs protesting against the crushing pressure, but he met Kastor's gaze without flinching.
The man's expression remained unreadable. Cold. Calculating.
"Let's try again," Kastor said, voice devoid of impatience. He spoke with the same calm certainty as a man giving orders at a butcher's block. "You sold a girl something. A device. Where is she?"
Harland spat blood onto the dirt. His lip had split against his teeth when he fell, and the taste of iron lingered on his tongue. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Silence.
Then—a sigh, long and drawn out.
Ivara crouched beside them, her head tilting as she studied Harland with something that almost resembled curiosity. "Lies are such tedious things," she murmured. Her voice carried a lilt, a softness that almost sounded like amusement. But her eyes… her eyes held no warmth.
She raised a hand.
The ground beneath them trembled.
Harland barely had time to register the movement before the first tendrils broke free of the dirt. At first, they were thin, curling around his wrists and ankles like curious fingers. But then—
They dug in.
Needle-thin roots pierced his flesh, slipping beneath the skin, burrowing with slow, deliberate intent. It felt like a thousand tiny hooks twisting into his muscle, prying him open, inch by inch.
Harland clenched his jaw, his body jerking involuntarily as the pain bloomed through his veins like fire. He had endured heat, metal, and pain his entire life—but this… this was something else. This was inside him.
"You're strong," Ivara mused. "But flesh always bends. Bones always break."
She flicked her fingers.
The roots twisted.
Agony ripped through him as his left arm was wrenched at an unnatural angle. The tendons strained, bones grinding as the roots coiled tighter, forcing his limb toward an inevitable snap. Harland sucked in a sharp breath, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream.
Ivara leaned closer, her lips barely a whisper away from his ear. "Do you know what the earth tells me?" she purred. "It tells me things about you. The way your body shudders. The way your blood sings in pain."
Her fingers ghosted over his cheek, and the sensation of something crawling beneath his skin followed. A wave of nausea rolled through him as he felt the roots move inside him—spreading, slithering like living things with a hunger of their own.
His breath came in ragged bursts.
Still, he gritted his teeth. He wouldn't betray the girl.
Kastor exhaled slowly, watching him with something bordering on mild interest. "She doesn't matter to you," he pointed out. "You barely know her."
Harland barked out a rough, humorless laugh. "And yet… here we are."
Kastor's frown deepened.
Then, he drew his dagger.
The firelight gleamed against the blade's polished edge as he turned it in his grip, testing the weight, the balance. It was not a weapon meant for battle. It was meant for precision. For slow, intimate suffering.
"Pain is just a language," Kastor murmured, resting the tip of the blade against Harland's palm. "Some men need only a whisper. Others…"
He pressed down.
The blade sliced through skin with effortless ease, parting flesh from the base of Harland's thumb down toward his wrist. The pain was instant, sharp and searing, a white-hot line of agony that burned its way through his nerves. Blood welled up, dark and thick, slipping between Kastor's fingers as he dragged the dagger lower, carving deliberately.
Harland gritted his teeth, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His vision blurred, but still—he did not speak.
Kastor's expression remained unchanged.
Ivara sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "Stubborn. I do admire that."
She flicked her fingers again.
The roots burrowed deeper.
Harland's back arched violently as something tore through his shoulder, a jagged, twisting tendril forcing its way up through muscle and bone. The agony was unbearable, every nerve in his body screaming in protest, but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to give them what they wanted.
The air around them crackled with magic, thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and rot. The roots pulsed inside him, their movement sickeningly slow, deliberate, as if savoring his suffering.
Harland's vision wavered. His limbs trembled. He could feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of his mind, the sweet promise of unconsciousness....