Fort Ravensgate looked like what it was: a place designed to break people.
The fortress squatted on a rocky hillside like a gray, malignant tumor—all sharp angles and windowless walls. Three stories of stone, surrounded by a dry moat filled with iron spikes. Guard towers at each corner. The only entrance was a reinforced gate flanked by soldiers who looked like they'd forgotten how to smile.
They'd ridden through the night and most of the next day. Cadarn had spent the journey drifting in and out of consciousness, his shoulder wound festering again, fever climbing. The shackles had rubbed his wrists raw. His whole body felt like it was made of pain held together with spite.
Lieutenant Varys had kept her word about keeping him alive. Barely.
They'd stopped twice to let him drink water. Once to let him vomit by the roadside. When he'd nearly fallen off the horse from exhaustion, they'd tied him more securely to the saddle instead of letting him rest.
Professional. Efficient. Utterly without mercy.
The gates opened as they approached. The courtyard beyond was exactly as welcoming as expected—packed dirt, weapon racks, a gallows in the corner that looked recently used.
Soldiers moved about with military precision. No one spoke unnecessarily. No one met Cadarn's eyes.
A dungeon. This was a dungeon that happened to have a fortress built around it.
They hauled him off the horse. His legs buckled immediately. Two soldiers caught him before he hit the ground, then dragged him toward a heavy iron door set into the fortress's foundation.
Down stone steps. The temperature dropped with each level. The smell changed—from cold stone to damp earth to something worse. Old blood. Unwashed bodies. Fear.
The dungeon proper was a corridor lined with cells. Most were empty. A few contained shapes in the darkness that might have been human once.
They threw him into a cell—bare stone floor, no bed, no bucket, just four walls and a door with a slot at the bottom for food. The shackles stayed on.
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Darkness.
Cadarn sagged against the wall and let himself slide down until he was sitting. His shoulder throbbed. His fever spiked. His vision swam with phantom lights.
This is it. This is where it ends.
But he'd thought that before and kept not dying. Apparently, he was stubborn even by his own standards.
He lost track of time in the darkness. Could have been hours. Could have been days. The fever made everything dreamlike and distant.
At some point, the food slot opened and a tin plate scraped across the floor. Stale bread and water. He forced it down because survival was a habit he couldn't break, even when he wanted to.
At some other point, he heard screaming from down the corridor. A man's voice, begging in words that became increasingly incoherent until they stopped being words at all.
Then silence.
Then footsteps approaching his cell.
The door opened. Light stabbed in—a lantern held by a soldier.
"Up," the soldier ordered. "Commander wants to see you."
Cadarn tried to stand. Failed. The soldier grabbed his arm and hauled him upright with mechanical efficiency.
They walked down the corridor. Past empty cells. Past occupied ones where eyes watched from the darkness. Past the cell where the screaming had come from.
The door there was open. Cadarn saw inside despite trying not to look.
A wooden chair. Leather restraints. Dark stains on the floor. Tools on a table—implements that looked medical but weren't.
Empty now. Whoever had been screaming was gone. Disposed of or removed. Either way, the room was ready for its next occupant.
They climbed stairs. Left the dungeon proper. Entered what looked like an administrative wing—still stone, still cold, but at least it had windows.
The soldier knocked on a heavy oak door.
"Enter," a woman's voice called.
They entered.
The office was surprisingly civilized. Bookshelves lined two walls. A desk sat beneath a window overlooking the courtyard. Maps on the walls. A fire in the hearth.
Commander Vane sat behind the desk, reading through a stack of papers. She was exactly as Cadarn remembered from Garrett's description—late forties, aristocratic bearing, gray hair pulled back severely. She wore a dark blue dress and silver insignia that marked her as Duke Theodric's personal intelligence officer.
She didn't look up immediately. Just kept reading, making Cadarn stand there, swaying on his feet, while she finished whatever document had her attention.
A power play. Making him wait. Establishing dominance.
Finally, she set down her papers and looked at him.
"Doctor Cadarn Vex. Thank you for joining me." Her tone was conversational, like they'd met at a dinner party. "Please, sit."
The soldier pushed Cadarn into a chair across from her desk. The shackles made it awkward, but he managed.
Vane studied him with the clinical interest of someone examining a specimen. "You look terrible."
"I've had a difficult week."
"Arrow wound. Infection. Hypothermia. Exhaustion. Fever." She ticked them off like a shopping list. "My medic says you should be dead. The fact that you're still conscious is impressive."
"I'm very stubborn."
"So I've gathered." She poured two cups of wine from a carafe on her desk, pushed one across to him. "Drink. It's not poisoned. And you need fluids."
Cadarn stared at the cup. "Why the hospitality?"
"Because I'm civilized. And because I want you thinking clearly for our conversation." She sipped her own wine. "Drink, Doctor. Consider it a professional courtesy."
His throat was so dry it hurt. The wine sat there, ruby red in the firelight, probably the best he'd had in years.
Screw it.
He picked up the cup with shackled hands and drank. It was good wine—smooth, rich, wasted on someone who'd spent two decades drinking whatever was cheapest.
"Better?" Vane asked.
"Marginally."
"Excellent. Now then. Let's talk about why you're here."