The next time the man opened his eyes, ice-cold water struck his face.
He gasped, sputtered— then realized he was bound. Tight, rough sheets wrapped around his arms and legs, pinning him down on the hard cold floor.
He blinked through the dripping water, catching sight of a figure seated by the window.
Zephyr.
Back straight, eyes unreadable, right fist resting beneath his jaw. Calm— but the kind of calm a blade has before it strikes.
"Who sent you?" Zephyr asked.
The man clenched his jaw, waiting— hoping for the bitter taste of death.
But his eyes widened.
Nothing.
Zephyr's hand moved slightly. He tossed something onto the floor. It landed with a soft, cruel sound.
The poison sack.
The man stared in disbelief. Somehow, Zephyr had removed it— before he could even try to use it.
"I won't ask again," Zephyr said, voice low.
Still, the man remained silent.
Then the air shifted, Zephyr released his aura.
