A dimly lit chamber exuded an air of foreboding, its stone walls damp and cold, absorbed the flickering light of a single torch mounted on the far wall. Shadows danced ominously, twisting and contorting as the flame flickered, casting an eerie glow over the rough-hewn wooden table at the center of the room. The table, scarred and stained from countless encounters, bore the marks of desperation and despair, its surface a testament to the secrets it had witnessed.
The air was thick with tension, a palpable weight that pressed down on anyone who dared to enter. The faint sound of dripping water echoed in the silence, a rhythmic reminder of time passing slowly in this place of torment.
At the entrance to the room, a figure stood, cloaked in dark robes that whispered against the stone floor. The interrogator's face was obscured by the hood, but the glint of cold, calculating eyes could be seen peering out. They turned to the guard stationed nearby, their voice low and commanding, yet laced with an unsettling calm.
"Ensure the cell is secured properly," the interrogator instructed, their tone brooking no argument. "Listen closely, ignore anything you hear from the inside, and make damn sure no one— and I mean absolutely no one—enters this place with anything that has a reflective surface. Do you understand?
The guard swallowed hard, a flicker of unease crossing his face as he nodded. "Aye, me lord. I'll keep watch."
"Good," The interrogator's voice softened, and a somber mood settled over them like a heavy cloak. For a brief moment, the weight of their task seemed to press down on their shoulders, the gravity of the situation reflected in the depths of their eyes.
"Remember," they added, their voice barely above a whisper, "what we do here is not without consequence. We seek the truth, but the path is often dark."
With that, the interrogator steeled themselves, the moment of vulnerability passing as they stepped forward, pushing open the heavy wooden door that groaned under the weight of its own history. As the door creaked open, the flickering torchlight caught the glimmer of fear in the eyes of the new prisoner, a reflection of the dread that permeated the air. The interrogator entered the room, the shadows deepening around them, ready to extract the truth from the depths of despair. In this medieval interrogation room, the line between justice and cruelty blurred, leaving only the echoes of anguish in its wake.
As the door creaked open, the flickering torchlight revealed the prisoner sitting in the heavy iron chair at the far end of the rough-hewn wooden table. At first glance, he appeared strikingly ordinary, clad in simple, threadbare clothing that hung loosely from his frame. However, a closer look revealed the unsettling reality of his condition. His skin was marred with smudges of dried blood, and a bruise blossomed on his cheek, darkening the pallor of his face. A shallow cut ran along his brow, trickling a thin line of crimson that had dried in the cool air of the chamber.
Despite the evidence of his injuries, the man's demeanor was disconcertingly nonchalant. He leaned back in the chair, arms resting casually on the table, as if he were merely waiting for a mundane conversation rather than facing an interrogation. His unkempt hair fell in disheveled strands around his face, framing features that were neither handsome nor ugly—just a plainness that could easily blend into a crowd.
His dull brown eyes, though slightly glazed, held a curious calmness that seemed out of place in such a grim setting. When he spoke, his voice was soft and unassuming, yet it carried an eerie steadiness that belied the chaos of his surroundings.
"You're here to ask questions, I presume?" he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the gravity of his situation.
The interrogator, standing across the table, felt a chill run down their spine. The prisoner's unsettling ordinariness was amplified by his injuries, which were not the result of his captors' cruelty but rather the remnants of a fight with unknown assailants—who or what had attacked him remained a mystery. He had been found bloodied and battered, the circumstances surrounding the conflict unclear. It was as if he had stumbled into a storm of violence without understanding how or why.
The distance between them, marked by the scarred table, felt charged with tension. The interrogator studied the man before them, trying to decipher the enigma of his calmness amidst the blood and bruises. Here was a person who, despite his injuries, exuded an unsettling air of acceptance, as if he had long ago made peace with the chaos of his life.
"I suppose you want to know what happened," the prisoner continued, his tone almost casual, as if recounting a mundane tale. "But the truth is, I can't tell you. I don't even know myself. One moment I was walking, and the next…"
"I'm not a child," the interrogator interrupted sharply, their voice cutting through the air like a knife. "And don't give me that horse shit, because no one simply walks in Maker's Labyrinth by accident."
The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation. The interrogator leaned forward, eyes narrowing as they scrutinized the prisoner's expression. The calmness that enveloped the man was not born of innocence or ignorance; it stemmed from a deeper well of experience. He had faced questioning before, for grave crimes that had left their mark on his soul. The weight of those past encounters had numbed him to the fear and anxiety that typically accompanied such moments.
The interrogator felt their unease grow a tiny bit more; it was something about the man's unsettling calm that disturbed him, though he could not quite pinpoint what it was.
Clearing his throat, the interrogator straightened, adopting a more authoritative tone. "I am Hakkon Fos Daerun, High Confessor to the Council of the Bronze Pentagate," he declared, his voice resonating with the weight of his title.
"I am here to uncover the truth, and I suggest you consider your words carefully. The fate of many may rest upon what you choose to reveal."
The prisoner's lips curled into a sardonic smile, and he let out a low chuckle, the sound strained and pained, as if it were a remnant of laughter from a distant memory.
"High Confessor? Ain't that a fancy name for top torturer?" he said, his voice laced with a mix of defiance and amusement. The chuckle faded quickly, replaced by a wince as he shifted in his chair, the injuries still fresh and tender.
He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and resignation, as if he were speaking to someone not there.
Hakkon's expression hardened, and he leaned in closer, his voice low and menacing. "You think this is a game? You're in no position to mock me. I could end your life with a single word. Now, introduce yourself."
The prisoner's sardonic smile faded, replaced by a look of genuine confusion and frustration. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. "I can't," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hakkon's brow furrowed in disbelief. "What do you mean you can't? Is this some sort of trick? You think I'll let you play coy with me?"
"No, it's not that I don't want to," the prisoner insisted, his tone earnest yet strained. "It's… it's something else. Something or someone is preventing me from saying or even remembering my name."
The confessor leaned back, momentarily taken aback by the prisoner's unexpected admission. "What are you talking about? Are you trying to tell me that you've forgotten your own name? That's absurd."
With a flicker of determination, Hakkon raised his hand, a faint glow emanating from his fingertips as he prepared to invoke his magic. "Let's see if we can't uncover the truth directly," he said, his voice steady. "I'll delve into your mind and find out what's hidden there."
The prisoner's expression shifted, a mix of concern and defiance crossing his features. "Wait," he warned, his tone urgent. "You might want to reconsider that. It might not end well for you."
Hakkon paused, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean? I'm the High Confessor. I can handle whatever I find."
"Perhaps," the prisoner replied, his voice low and serious. "But I am afraid to tell you that it is not what my mind conjures that you should be wary of."
Hakkon's brow furrowed in confusion. "Explain yourself, knave."
The prisoner leaned forward slightly, his eyes intense. "There are forces at play here that go beyond my own thoughts. If you pry into my mind, you might awaken something that is not just a part of me. It could be something far darker, something that has been waiting for a chance to break free."
Hakkon hesitated, the glow from his fingertips flickering as he weighed the prisoner's warning. "You believe I should fear what's in your mind? I've encountered terrors far greater than anything you could imagine"
"Maybe," the prisoner said, his gaze unwavering. "But it's not about fear. It's about control. If you force your way in, you might unleash something that's better left undisturbed. I can feel it—there's a darkness lurking, and it doesn't take kindly to intrusions."
The confessor's resolve wavered for a moment, the weight of the prisoner's words settling heavily in the air. "You're saying I should just take your word for it? That I should let you keep your secrets?"
"I'm not asking you to trust me blindly," the prisoner replied, his voice firm yet calm. "I'm asking you to consider the consequences. If you truly want to help me—and yourself—you'll need to tread carefully. There's more at stake here than just my name."
Hakkon lowered his hand, the glow fading as he contemplated the prisoner's warning. The tension in the room shifted, the air thick with uncertainty.
After a moment of silence, Hakkon turned sharply on his heel and strode back to the heavy wooden door. He opened it with a creak that echoed through the chamber, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond. The guard stationed outside straightened at his approach, a look of curiosity mixed with concern on his face.
"Fetch a seal master," Hakkon commanded, his voice firm. "Preferably Master Einhart. We may need his expertise to navigate this situation."
The guard nodded, a hint of apprehension in his eyes. "At once, High Confessor." He turned and hurried down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Hakkon returned to the table, his mind racing with the implications of the prisoner's words. The idea of a darkness lurking within the man's mind unsettled him, and he knew that if there was any chance of uncovering the truth, they would need the skills of someone well-versed in mental fortification. In the event that whatever horror resided in the prisoner's mind overwhelmed the confessor.
As he waited, Hakkon studied the prisoner, who remained seated, his expression a mixture of wariness and cautious hope. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across the man's face, highlighting the bruises and cuts that marred his skin. Hakkon could sense the weight of the unknown pressing down on them both, and he felt the urgency of their situation grow.
"Tell me more about what you remember," Hakkon said, his tone shifting to one of inquiry. "If we're to make any progress, I need to understand the fragments you hold onto. Every detail could be crucial."
The prisoner took a deep breath..... prologue end