Click.
The cell door swung open with surprising ease, far too smoothly for someone accused of sending dozens of soldiers to their graves.
Tarrin stepped inside, his face covered with a rag, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. The air was thick—cold stone, iron, and the sour tang of blood.
His eyes adjusted to the dim glow cast by a single overhead lamp, and there he was.
The prisoner.
Slumped against the far wall, blood crusted on his jaw, one eye swollen nearly shut.
His lip had split in two places, but even through the damage, his gaze burned with something unbroken. Defiance. Amusement. Madness—maybe all three.
The door creaked shut behind Tarrin with a groan that scraped against the silence, echoing like a warning bell. The man lifted his head slowly, like it took effort, like the air had weight.
Their eyes met.
Then the prisoner smirked—bloody, crooked, and entirely too calm.
His voice came rough, like gravel soaked in liquor, but with a flicker of levity that didn't belong here.
"What do you want to ask, little lamb?"
A chill ran down Tarrin's spine.
'Why the hell am I the one getting shivers? I'm the one with powers.'
But the prisoner wasn't done.
He cocked his head slightly, bruised neck popping from the motion.
"How'd you get in, anyway?" he rasped. "Ah, but I suppose that doesn't really matter now, does it?"
His smirk didn't fade.
And suddenly, five minutes felt like an eternity.
Tarrin let out a quiet breath, the kind meant to calm nerves he refused to admit were fraying. He wasn't scared, not really. Just… off balance. The man in front of him radiated something that didn't match the bruises on his face or the story on paper.
He's just a mundane, Tarrin reminded himself. Nothing special. No Scars. No essence. Just a man.
With that thought, he reached inward, weaving charm into the air—subtle, invisible, quiet as mist. His aura spread like a second skin, made to coax, to ease, to disarm.
But the prisoner grimaced almost immediately, like he'd just tasted something rotten.
The charm shattered before it even had a chance to settle.
Then came the words. Low, sharp, and foreign.
"Obsecro, Mors."
The phrase slipped from the man's mouth with weight and certainty, in a language Tarrin didn't recognize. When he continued, his accent had thickened, the tone more grounded.
"Away with these tricks, boy. If you're a man, ask like one."
Tarrin clenched his jaw. For a second, his hand twitched—half a mind to slap the smugness off the bastard's face. But he pulled back. Fast.
'Who the hell is this guy supposed to be? Just a maintenance engineer? Then why's he speaking something other than standard Lirran? I was taught that there is no language beside it? '
And more importantly—
'How did he sense my aura? Only someone with power on Vincent's level should've caught that so quickly.'
None of it lined up.
Even with that sick coil of unease twisting in his gut, Tarrin held his ground. He forced his thoughts back to the night before—the chaos, the smoke, the screaming—and the throbbing in his injured hand pulsed in time with his rising nerves.
Then he asked the one question that had haunted him since the moment it all began.
"Why did the attack happen?"
His voice was cool. Even. It felt almost ridiculous, asking something so plain when the man in front of him was clearly a scapegoat, not the real mind behind the carnage. But maybe—just maybe—he'd know something. Anything.
The prisoner slowly raised his head, his bloodied eyes locking onto Tarrin's.
"This is what you've come to ask?" His voice was dry, almost disbelieving. "Not why I did it? Not why I killed forty of your brothers? But why it happened?"
Tarrin smirked, the expression hidden beneath the strip of rag tied across his face.
"Oh, please. Not a single one of us actually believes you're the one behind it." His voice dropped, tinged with mockery. "You're just a simple engineer, right? How could you have the override codes?"
The man's expression twisted into a snarl. "What do you know, boy? Let me tell you—nothing! You have no idea." His voice cracked at the end, rage scraping against the edges of his composure.
Tarrin's smirk only widened.
So you're not as stoic as you pretend to be.
"Here's the only thing I do know," Tarrin said, pushing off the wall with an air of calm he didn't fully feel. "Forty-three people died. And you're shielding the person really responsible. I just want to know why. No amount of coin is worth dying over."
He leaned back again, letting his shoulder rest lazily against the grimy stone, playing the role of someone with all the time in the world.
The prisoner's face contorted, just for a second. But that was all Tarrin needed to see.
Then the idiot opened his mouth.
"Guards! Hey, Guards!"
Tarrin stepped in without missing a beat. Calm. Quiet. Deadly. He raised his good hand, placed a finger over his lips.
"Pssst. No reason to shout. Nothing's going to save you from me."
His voice was smooth, almost gentle. But inside, his heart pounded like a war drum—furious, erratic, the rhythm of a man bluffing just short of a breakdown. It thundered in his chest with the ferocity of a Scarbane, even if he was just a Scarling in borrowed confidence.
The prisoner froze, clearly rattled. Tarrin could see it in his eyes—confusion bleeding into fear. Maybe reality was finally catching up to the poor bastard.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes. "Just tell me one thing. Why are you willing to die for her?"
The pronoun hit like a strike. He watched carefully—testing, waiting. And there it was. The man flinched. Not a full one, just a flicker—but real. A flash of raw terror skittered across his face.
Tch. That bad, huh? Guess I've found the soft spot.
"What did the Colonel do for you," Tarrin asked, his tone colder now, sharper, "that you're so willing to die for her?"
It was a theory he'd been chewing on since the night of the incident. On one hand, maybe the Colonel had nothing to do with it. Maybe she was just using this man as a disposable fall guy. That was believable enough.
But then came the inconsistencies.
The delay in the soldiers' response.
The fact that she arrived just in time to play savior.
And most damning of all—she was a Scarforged. Someone like her should've snuffed out that attack the moment it started. But she didn't. Not even close.
Why?
Tarrin didn't know.
But he sure as hell planned to find out.
The prisoner shook his head, a bitter, strained laugh clawing its way out of his chest."Oh, boy. You shouldn't have found out. Should've played the fool like all the others. This isn't a game you're ready to play."
Tarrin blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. Is this guy bipolar? He narrowed his eyes. Where'd the rage go? Why does he sound... calm? Did he finally snap?
Then the man spoke again—this time with a voice that felt like it was dragging chains through his throat, every word soaked in finality.
"You know what? Maybe you're right. Why should I die for a foreigner?"He exhaled slowly. "Better to die with honor than be executed like a traitor."
His tone was casual, too casual—like he was talking about the weather. But the words chilled Tarrin to the marrow.
Foreigner? The word snagged in his mind like a hook. What the hell is he talking about?
Then came the first syllable.
"O Domina Velorum Ultimorum, tibi spiritum meum offero."
Tarrin froze.
It was like the air thickened to sludge, like gravity itself suddenly remembered it could crush bones. His gut twisted into a knot so tight it hurt. Something ancient was stirring. Something wrong.
He stared, wide-eyed, as the man continued his prayer—serene, reverent, like this was all rehearsed. Like this moment had been waiting in the dark all along.
"In silentio tuo veritas; in umbra tua pax."
A pulse of pressure rolled through the chamber. The air vibrated. A vortex of inky black essence began to swirl around the prisoner, tendrils snaking from the floor and walls like shadows had grown claws.
Tarrin couldn't breathe.
His instincts screamed run, move, flee, but his legs wouldn't listen. His body had turned to stone, sweat pouring from his brow like rain. The vortex hummed louder. It was alive. A ritual. A death sentence.
"Tolle animam meam sine mora, et iuste pensa."
The words slammed into Tarrin like a physical blow. His knees buckled. His heart pounded so violently it drowned out thought.
Each syllable tore through the room like it was peeling reality back inch by inch.
"Domina Mortis… accipe servum tuum."
Tarrin saw it.
A scythe. Pale. Translucent. Hanging above the man's throat like judgment made manifest. The blade shimmered with hunger. It didn't move. It didn't have to. Its presence alone felt final.
Then the final words dropped like stones into the void.
"Mors vincit omnia."
And just like that, the weight lifted.
The vortex vanished.
Silence returned.
The prisoner collapsed with a dull thud, chains clattering lifelessly against the floor. Gray veins traced like spiderwebs beneath shriveled skin.
What was once a man was now a husk, drained and discarded.
Dead. Instantly. Utterly.
Tarrin's legs unlocked in a surge of panic. His breath hitched, chest heaving. He stumbled back, never taking his eyes off the corpse.
What the hell was that?
Then his body caught up with the fear, and he bolted.
He didn't look back.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't think.
He tore down the corridor, half-sobbing, half-cursing under his breath like a broken record."Fuck—fuck—fuck. What was that? What the fuck was that?"