The medic was a bored-looking man in his fifties who treated Cadarn's wounds with mechanical efficiency and no conversation.
He cut away the soiled bandages. Cleaned the wound with something that burned like liquid fire. Packed it with fresh herbs. Rebandaged it tightly.
"Infection's bad," the medic said finally. "Spreading. You need rest and proper care or you'll lose the arm. Maybe the shoulder. Maybe your life."
"Can you treat it?"
"I can slow it down. Can't stop it completely—not while you're in a dungeon cell." He packed up his supplies. "You should cooperate with the Commander. She's offering you a way out."
"Is she paying you to say that?"
"She's paying me to keep you alive. The advice is free." He stood. "But for what it's worth, Doctor—and I know who you are, everyone here does—the Commander's not the worst person you could be negotiating with. She's practical. Keeps her word. Doesn't torture for entertainment."
"Just for information."
"Just for information," the medic agreed. "Which in this world counts as merciful. Think about it."
He left.
Cadarn was alone again in the darkness.
But not for long.
Maybe an hour later, the door opened again. A different soldier this time.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"Commander's orders. Move."
They walked deeper into the dungeon. Past Cadarn's original cell. Past the interrogation room. Down another set of stairs to a level that smelled worse—older blood, older suffering.
Maximum security. The cells where they kept the prisoners who were valuable enough to preserve but dangerous enough to bury.
The soldier stopped at a cell door, unlocked it, pushed it open.
"Five minutes," he said. "I'll be right outside."
Cadarn stepped inside.
The cell was slightly larger than his—maybe eight feet square. A bucket in the corner. A pile of straw that might have been a bed once. And sitting against the far wall, shackled hand and foot, was Captain Garrett Hale.
What was left of him, anyway.
Cadarn had seen torture victims before. Had treated them during the wars. But seeing Garrett—competent, controlled Garrett—reduced to this...
Both eyes were swollen nearly shut. His face was a mass of bruises, cuts that had scabbed over badly, burns that looked infected. His hands were wrapped in bloody rags—all the fingers clearly broken, some bent at angles that made Cadarn's medical training scream.
His chest showed burn marks through his torn shirt. His breathing was shallow and pained—broken ribs, probably.
But the worst part was his eyes.
When they focused on Cadarn, there was recognition. Awareness. Garrett was still in there, still conscious, still suffering.
Still alive.
"Doctor," Garrett rasped. His voice was barely human—damaged from screaming. "You look terrible."
Despite everything, Cadarn almost laughed. "You're one to talk."
"Fair point." Garrett tried to shift position, failed, settled back with a pained grunt. "They got you."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry. I tried not to tell them anything. Tried to—" He coughed, spat blood. "Tried to buy you time."
"You did. I got farther than I would have without you." Cadarn moved closer, kneeling beside him. "How long have they been...?"
"Five days? Six? Lost count." Garrett's swollen eyes tried to focus. "Commander Vane. She's smart. Professional. Knows exactly how much pain to apply before permanent damage sets in."
"She made me an offer. Cooperation in exchange for humane treatment."
"Of course she did. She made me the same offer." Garrett laughed—a wet, bubbling sound that suggested internal bleeding. "I told her to go to hell."
"Why?"
"Because some things matter more than pain. More than survival." He met Cadarn's eyes. "The truth matters, Doctor. What you know—what you can testify to—it could end this war. Save thousands of lives. I wasn't going to compromise that by making deals with torturers."
"Even if it cost you everything?"
"Especially then. What's the point of surviving if you sell everything you believe in to do it?" Garrett coughed again, harder this time. Red flecks on his lips. "But you... you're different. You're not a soldier. You didn't sign up for this."
"Neither did you. You were just doing your job."
"My job was to get you to safety. I failed." Garrett's voice was getting weaker. "So now it's on you, Doctor. You decide. Cooperate with Vane, maybe help her end the war quietly through blackmail and backroom deals. Or refuse, testify publicly if you ever get the chance, make sure the truth comes out no matter the cost."
"Both options lead to more death."
"All options lead to death. War is death. Politics is death. Truth is death." Garrett closed his eyes. "The question is: what kind of death can you live with?"
Cadarn wanted to argue. Wanted to find the third option, the clever solution where everyone survived and the truth won cleanly.
But this wasn't a medical problem with a surgical solution.
This was the real world. Complicated. Bloody. Unfair.
"They're going to kill you," Cadarn said quietly. "Vane. Once they've extracted everything useful, once I've made my decision, they won't keep you alive."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I made my choice. I'm at peace with it." Garrett opened his eyes again, and despite the damage, despite the pain, there was something almost serene in them. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"Whatever you decide—cooperate or refuse, testify or stay silent—make sure it means something. Don't waste what I suffered for. Don't waste what Bram died for. Don't waste what those villagers risked for you." His voice was fading. "Make it count, Doctor. That's all I ask."
The cell door opened. The soldier: "Time's up."
Cadarn stood slowly. "Garrett—"
"Go. And remember: the truth matters. Even when it costs everything. Especially then."
They pulled Cadarn out of the cell.
The last thing he saw before the door closed was Garrett slumping against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
A man who'd held on to his principles even when they were being systematically tortured out of him.
A better man than Cadarn had ever been.
They took him back to his own cell and locked him in.
Cadarn sat in the darkness, Garrett's words echoing in his head.
Make it count.
But how? How did you make suffering count in a world that dealt in blood and lies?
How did you choose between impossible options when all of them led to graves?
He didn't have an answer.
And in the morning, Commander Vane would demand one anyway.