The sharp sound of footsteps echoed through the stone corridor.
"Nothing, my Lord."
Captain Behram kept pace beside him, his expression strained.
"We've questioned the prisoner repeatedly. They refuse to identify their employer, their accomplices, or how they managed to infiltrate the palace. We've been at this for nearly six hours."
Azhur Zelov said nothing.
His dark hair was pulled into a slightly disheveled topknot, and he'd exchanged his ceremonial robes for a simpler black-and-crimson ensemble. At thirty, the Ember Lord stood six feet four inches tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, his scarred face set in an expression that made the guards straighten as he passed.
"The men are growing frustrated,"
Behram continued.
"They've suggested we employ more... persuasive methods."
Azhur Zelov stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned his head.
"Persuasive methods?"
Behram swallowed.
"Nothing unauthorized, Your Majesty. Only that—"
"I gave explicit orders regarding the treatment of prisoners."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then I suggest your men remember them."
His voice never rose.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Azhur Zelov resumed walking.
An assassin had infiltrated his palace. Someone had managed to bypass security measures designed by some of the Ninefold Reach's finest strategists, penetrate the royal residence, and come dangerously close to murdering its ruler.
And now that assassin refused to speak.
It wasn't simply the attempt on his life that infuriated him. He'd grown accustomed to threats against himself.
It was the implications.
Someone knew the palace's weaknesses. Someone had provided information, resources, and perhaps assistance from within his own court.
And until he discovered who, everyone inside these walls was potentially in danger.
They reached a heavy ironbound door.
Two guards stood outside.
"Open it,"
Azhur Zelov ordered.
The lock turned with a metallic scrape.
The interrogation room held a wooden table, two chairs, one lantern and a great deal of bare stone. The air carried the faint smell of damp earth and burning oil.
Azhur Zelov stepped inside.
His amber eyes went round the room first — the exits, where the guards stood — and only then to the prisoner.
The person who had been sent to kill him.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he glanced toward the guards.
"Outside."
"My Lord, the prisoner is dangerous—"
"I'm aware."
The guard hesitated.
Azhur Zelov's gaze sharpened.
"Was that unclear?"
"No, Ember Lord."
The guards withdrew, leaving the door closed behind them. Azhur Zelov knew they would remain immediately outside.
He approached the table without hurry, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting.
For a moment, he studied the prisoner in silence.
Then he placed a thin folder on the table.
"Six hours."
His voice was low, controlled.
"Six hours of questioning. And according to my captain, you've given us absolutely nothing."
He opened the folder, scanning the reports.
"No employer. No explanation. No useful information about how you entered my palace."
He closed it again.
"You understand that attempting to assassinate the Ember Lord is a capital offense."
He said it the way he said the weather: no pleasure in it, no apology.
Azhur Zelov leaned back slightly.
"My guards seem convinced that you're being difficult for the pleasure of it."
His amber eyes lifted.
"I disagree."
A pause.
"People don't infiltrate one of the most heavily guarded palaces in the world without a reason. And they certainly don't risk execution without believing they have something to gain."
He rested his forearms on the table.
"So here's what's going to happen."
"I'm going to ask you a question. You're going to decide whether answering it is in your best interest."
His expression remained unreadable.
"And regardless of what you decide, my guards will continue following my orders. I don't tolerate torture, and I won't start tonight."
He allowed the silence to settle, and then he pushed the folder across the table until it touched your wrist.
"What was worth risking your life to kill me?"
He left his hand on the folder and did not take it back, and the lantern between you made the burn on his jaw look older than it was.
"Six hours is a long time to say nothing. Say it to me now, and I will decide what happens after."