Lucian's Pov
The room reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation. It was always the same with interrogation rooms—cleaned thoroughly after each use, but never enough to scrub out the memories soaked into the stone.
Jasper was slumped in the lone chair in the center, his arms bound behind him with reinforced sliver cuffs that cut slightly into his wrists. A small pool of blood collected beneath one of his feet, where Valen had removed a few toenails for sport—or information, depending on who you asked.
Valen stood before him now, a cloth in one hand and a thin blade in the other. His coat sleeves were rolled up, his expression unreadable. Focused.
"You know," Valen said, voice too calm, "you're not even particularly good at holding out. I've seen rogues with stronger wills. But I admire the consistency—you've said 'nothing' in twenty different ways."
Jasper spat blood onto the floor. "Go to hell."
Valen gave a crooked smile. "I made the blueprints."
