The elf's eyes darted to Alystren—to the man claiming to be Alystren—and in that single glance, Northern saw everything he needed.
But he wanted to hear it.
"I... I..."
"Wrong answer."
Northern didn't even move his hand. The lightning simply jumped—a thin, precise arc that struck the elf's shoulder. Not enough to cause real damage. Just enough to make every nerve ending in his arm scream in unison.
The elf gasped, a strangled sound of pure agony, his body convulsing once before going rigid.
"That was setting one," Northern said calmly. "There are ten. By setting five, you'll lose bladder control. By setting seven, you'll start forgetting words. By setting ten..."
He shrugged.
"Well. Actually, I've never tried this on anyone, so I don't even know what will happen by then. Who knows—my predictions for five and seven might be wrong too."
