Unrepentant

“You filthy slave!” Umbres's voice cracked, hoarse from hours of screaming. His wrists, rubbed raw from the shackles Silas had fastened too tightly, trembled as he struggled, yanking with every ounce of strength he had left.

“Slave to the False Twelve!” His once-calm eyes, always laced with that irritating warmth, were wild now, unfocused, swimming with madness. “You are nothing—nothing but a servant of lies!” He strained forward, the chain dragging against the stone, a manic light flickering behind his eyes.

Silas leaned against the cold, unforgiving wall of the prison cell, half-slouched in the damp corner. He yawned, lazily adjusting his robe's sleeve, now back to his persona of 'Senior Ji'.

His eyes flicked toward Umbres—or rather, Ambri, as he would be known now—but only briefly, before half-closing again. He could barely muster the energy to care about the lunatic’s ranting. After all, the paralytic that had frozen the man’s limbs earlier had worn off, and Silas needed him lucid for this part of the performance.

The man before him was no longer the proud Umbres, the ruthless Inquisitor of Rovinius. No, Silas had destroyed that man hours ago, and in his place now stood a creature made entirely of lies and delusion: Ambri, a self-proclaimed Priest of a deity that had never existed, Aiel. A god whose name Silas had plucked from the air, like picking out a random piece of lint.

And yet, in Umbres’s warped mind, this fiction had become reality. Every word he screamed, every accusation, every so-called prophecy, had been crafted by Silas himself.

Ambri thrashed again, and the dull clink of metal filled the room, a sound Silas had grown used to. “You follow the corrupt! The deceivers!” Umbres’s lips curled in disgust, spit flying with each frantic word. “Aiel will cleanse this world, and when it does, you’ll burn with the rest of them!” His voice pitched higher, shrill, as his conviction deepened. “Aiel sees you, heathen!”

Silas ran a hand through his hair, his fingers moving lazily through the tangles.

Ambri’s words washed over him like meaningless noise. They were all made up, conjured from his own invention in the moments after returning Umbres's brain into his skull.

[Envy’s Seduction] had worked beautifully, still maintaining a convincing disguise for Umbres as the Priest of Probitas. It would hold strong for weeks, keeping the man lost in the fog of Silas’s design.

There was something almost enchanting in watching someone become the thing you told them they were.

Umbres believed he was Ambri. He believed in Aiel. He believed Silas was a servant of False gods. It was all fabricated, a tangled web of lies, but to Umbres, it was real. Real enough to make him the perfect physical scapegoat for the bloodshed at Starlight Bidders’ Hall. A neat solution, with a handy puppet to take the fall.

Another yawn escaped Silas as he pushed himself off the wall. He strolled toward Umbres, ignoring the wild eyes that followed his every step. There was no hurry.

The show now was for anyone who might come later, not for the delusional wreck before him. Silas had to make it look convincing—had to make sure it appeared that Umbres had been properly interrogated. Senior Ji, after all, was not to be known for 'unwarranted' violence.

Umbres’s raving intensified as Silas closed the distance. “You’re blind! Blind to the truth!” His voice cracked, faltering for a moment as his breath hitched in his chest. His wrists strained again against the shackles. “Aiel’s light—”

Silas grabbed a fistful of the man’s filthy hair, jerking his head upward with casual force. The sharp crack of Umbres’s knees scraping across the stone floor echoed through the small cell, but Silas didn’t flinch. He glanced at the top of Umbres’s skull, carefully inspecting the spot where he’d performed the lobotomy. No visible marks. No scars. Good.

“Who do you serve?” Silas asked, his voice low, bored. He was barely paying attention as his fingers tightened in the matted hair.

Ambri growled, his teeth bared in defiance. “I serve Aiel!” His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’ll never speak to you! I’d rather die than betray my god!” Spittle flew from his mouth, spraying Silas’s neck.

For a moment, Silas didn’t move. The spit slid down his skin in a warm, wet trail. Slowly, he reached up and wiped it away, his expression completely blank. His hand, now wet with the man’s saliva, hovered for a moment before he calmly smeared it across Ambri’s shoulder. The slickness of the spit mixed with the grime that already covered the man's ragged clothes, but Silas didn’t bother to look.

Instead, he drew his hand back, fist clenched, moving with deliberate slowness. He locked eyes with Ambri, whose face twisted in fear now, the fury replaced by something more primal. The crackling defiance in his eyes flickered, dimming under the weight of his impending pain.

Ambri’s breaths came faster now, ragged gasps that filled the silence between them.

Silas’s knuckles tightened, the slow-motion descent of his fist unfolding in front of Ambri’s widened, terrified eyes.

Selen’s eyes were terrifying, her pupils constricted to pinpricks as the effects of the [Headstart] potion took full hold. They looked hollow, her gaze vacant yet frantic, searching the world through a narrow tunnel that only she could see.

Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs, each inhale sharp, each exhale shallow. Froth gathered at the corners of her mouth, a small, but unsettling sign that the potion was working far too well.

The study materials Silas had left for her were spread out before her on the desk, and her bloodshot eyes raced across the pages with a fevered intensity.

Every line of text seared itself into her mind as though burned into her brain with a branding iron. Her fingers, pale and trembling, gripped the edges of the wooden desk so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her silver hair, once neat and composed, shook with each feverish movement, strands slipping free and tangling around her flushed face.

The atmosphere in the room was tense.

Nyx, perched atop Zinnia’s head, was uncharacteristically still. His usual troublemaker demeanor had melted into something resembling mild concern—or perhaps morbid curiosity.

His claws tapped against Zinnia’s scalp in a rhythmic, absentminded pattern as he tilted his head, watching Selen with a mixture of bemusement and wariness.

Zinnia had woken up groggy and disoriented around the same time that the IV had stopped its slow, steady drip.

Now, fully alert, she sat with her lips pressed into a hard line, watching the strange spectacle unfold before her. Selen’s lips moved constantly, her voice no louder than a whisper, muttering in the Empire's language as though every word had a different weight that she was trying to balance.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Zinnia asked at last, unable to mask the unease that had been building within her. She kept her gaze fixed on Selen but directed the question at Nyx, who shifted on her head, his claws pressing slightly deeper into her scalp.

Nyx let out a confident squawk in response, but the air around him felt far less certain than his tone. "Well… probably," his thoughts betrayed him. "Guess that’s why only infants are supposed to take it."

Zinnia’s unease deepened as she glanced back at Selen, whose movements had only become more erratic. She was twitching now, her hands darting back and forth across the pages, her fingers tracing the letters as if drawing power from them. Suddenly, Selen snapped her head around, locking eyes with Zinnia so abruptly that it sent a shiver down her spine.

For a brief moment, there was silence. A thick, unsettling pause hung in the air, so suffocating that Zinnia found herself holding her breath.

"I am tree!" Selen declared, her voice clear and surprisingly fluent in Livish, before immediately turning back to her notes with manic dedication.

Zinnia blinked, her mouth slightly agape. She stared at Selen, waiting for her to say something else, but the girl had already returned to furiously scrawling notes, the absurdity of her declaration seemingly forgotten.

Nyx, however, seemed to find the whole situation highly amusing. A squawk-chuckle escaped him, and he flopped onto the top of Zinnia's head, hammering down on her head with his wing as if to contain his amusement.

Zinnia snapped her jaw shut, still too baffled to form a proper response. She cast another quick glance at Selen, her mind struggling to make sense of what had just transpired.

But the more she stared, the clearer it became that Selen was in no state to answer questions, let alone notice their presence anymore. The potion had taken full control, and all that remained was a driven, delirious scholar bent on mastering the Empire’s language at a breakneck pace.

"Alright, that's enough," Nyx concluded. He fluttered his wings, a bit of his old mischief returning, and began tugging at Zinnia’s hair, pulling her roughly towards the door.

“Okay, okay!” Zinnia hissed, swatting at him. “I’m coming, relax!” But Nyx was insistent, his claws gripping her scalp like iron hooks, yanking her forward with surprising strength for such a small creature.

As Nyx tugged her relentlessly toward the exit, Zinnia gave one last glance over her shoulder at Selen. The girl was still absorbed in her work, feverishly flipping through pages, muttering fractured words under her breath. She looked lost to the world, consumed by the potion’s manic influence.

With one final pull, Nyx guided Zinnia through the door, her feet stumbling slightly as she tried to keep pace with the crow’s determination. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud, cutting off the strange, fevered murmurs that had filled the room.

In the relative quiet of the hallway, Zinnia straightened up, running her fingers through her disheveled hair with a frustrated sigh.

"You could be gentler~," Zinnia grumbled, giving the crow a sideways glance, still trying to rub out the soreness from where his claws had tugged too hard.

Nyx merely let out a contented squawk, clearly unfazed by her irritation. He ruffled his feathers, before jumping down to the floor and beginning to walk, completely at ease.

Poliana stood outside the prison, her breath a visible mist in the crisp dawn air. The cold bit at her skin, but her focus was on the task ahead. She cast a glance at one of her guards, a young man whose face had turned an unhealthy shade of pale. His unease was evident in the way his eyes darted nervously between her and the ground.

"Has Senior Ji come to interrogate the criminal?" Poliana’s voice, though steady, carried an edge of urgency.

The guard swallowed hard before responding, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. "Yes, Town Lord. He arrived four hours ago."

Poliana gave a brief nod, her mind already working through how best to approach Senior Ji. There were too many variables, too many unknowns with him, and with each passing minute, her potential situation grew more precarious. As she moved toward the prison door, the guard's shaky voice interrupted her.

"Honorable Town Lord… everything was quiet for the first two hours… bu-but-t the last two have been…" His voice trembled, his words faltering as he tried to find the right way to express his fear. "Terrifying."

Poliana raised an eyebrow at the statement, intrigued but cautious. Before she could ask for clarification, a blood-curdling scream tore through the air. The sound echoed down the stone corridors, raw and primal, the kind of scream that came from someone who had abandoned all hope. It sent a chill down her spine, and she wasn’t the type to be easily rattled. She turned her attention back to the guard, who looked as though he might collapse.

"Thank you," Poliana said, slipping him a few large notes of Reshal, the currency rustling softly in the cold air as she handed it over. The guard's eyes widened in surprise as she winked at him. "You've heard nothing. Consider your Brenmari bonus has come early."

The guard’s face relaxed slightly as he pocketed the bribe, his relief palpable. He saluted her, though it was a shaky gesture at best. "Be careful, Ma'am," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Poliana gave him a curt nod before continuing down the hall, her boots making a rhythmic, hollow sound against the stone floor. The air seemed to grow colder the further she ventured into the prison, the temperature dropping noticeably as she neared the thick, iron-bound door that housed the man who claimed to be Inquisitor Umbres.

She had done her due diligence. The Bishops of Rovinius had confirmed that an Inquisitor by that name had indeed been dispatched to Sichal. It complicated things in ways she hadn't anticipated. The confirmation of his identity cast a shadow over everything.

Umbres—or the man calling himself Umbres—had official ties, which meant she had to tread carefully. This information needed to be shared with Ji, and soon. But the question remained: was the man inside truly Umbres, or had something untoward happened to the true Inquisitor?

As she reached for the door handle, her hand inches from the cold metal, the door swung open from within. Poliana instinctively took a step back, her eyes locking onto the figure standing in the doorway. Senior Ji.

His appearance startled her for just a moment—his eyes, usually a soft, gentle blue, appeared as dark as a moonless night, an abyss staring back at her. But just as quickly as it had happened, the blackness in his eyes flickered, shifting back to that familiar pale blue. A trick of the light, she told herself.

Her gaze drifted lower, and she couldn’t help but notice his right sleeve. It was discolored, soaked through with some dark red fluid, its wetness evident from the way it dripped steadily onto the stone floor beneath him. Blood? Something darker? Poliana’s mind raced, but her face betrayed none of the thoughts swirling behind her calm exterior.

Before she could open her mouth to ask, Ji’s lips curled into a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I was just on my way to retrieve you, Town Lord," he said, his voice smooth, pleasant, as though nothing unusual had occurred in the past four hours. His casual tone was unnerving.

Poliana tried to steady herself, but goosebumps prickled along her aged arms despite her efforts to maintain composure. Something felt off, deeply off. She had worked with nutjobs enough times to know that she could expect anything. But this... whatever had been happening inside that room… felt different.

"What’s the situation?" Poliana asked, forcing her voice to remain calm, though her body instinctively wanted to step back from him. The smell that wafted from the open door was faint but unmistakable—metallic, sharp, the scent of blood mingled with something more acrid, something that didn’t belong. Her eyes flickered to the door behind him, half-expecting to hear another scream from within, but all she could hear now was the soft drip of liquid hitting the stone floor.

Ji didn’t seem to notice her tension. Or if he did, he gave no indication. His smile remained, though there was a coolness behind it that unsettled her. "The Inquisitor has ended up... more cooperative than I anticipated," he said, his tone laced with a strange amusement. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter the room. "Would you care to see for yourself?"

Poliana hesitated, just for a moment, before straightening her spine. She stepped inside.