Sahara

The Theatre of War: Prelude

The dungeon was a place of shadows and whispers, a sanctum of stone and iron that held within it the secrets of the damned. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blood, mingling with the cries of those who had long since forgotten the taste of hope. The torches lining the walls cast flickering light that danced like phantoms, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.

I stood in the darkness, my back pressed against the cold, rough stone, watching the scene unfold before me. Eric, the trusted general of my father's armies, was a man of unyielding resolve. He had taken up the role of interrogator with a fervor that bordered on the obsessive. It was a position I rarely found myself in—watching rather than participating. But tonight, I was content to let Eric handle the mess, observing from a distance. His tall, imposing figure loomed over the prisoner, a captured Hrothgarian general who had been taken during our last encounter at the Avazi'pat.  The man was bound to a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles secured with iron shackles that bit into his flesh. His face was a mask of defiance, though the blood smeared across his features told of the pain he had already endured.

Eric was not one to shy away from the grim duties of his position. His methods were direct, brutal, and effective—qualities I had come to appreciate in the heat of battle. But there were times when brutality alone was not enough, and it was in these moments that my presence became necessary.

"You have been given ample opportunity to cooperate," Eric said, his voice low and dangerous. He circled the prisoner like a predator, his hands clasped behind his back. "But you remain obstinate. Tell me, what is your King's purpose in sending you to the Avazi'pat? What do you hope to gain?"

The prisoner met Eric's gaze with a defiant sneer, his breath ragged and uneven. "You'll get nothing from me, Saharan dog," he spat, his words dripping with venom. "I serve my King with loyalty and honor. I would sooner die than betray him."

Eric's eyes narrowed, and in one swift motion, he struck the man across the face with the back of his hand. The crack of the impact echoed through the dungeon, followed by the prisoner's pained grunt.

"I can arrange that," Eric said coldly, his hand gripping the prisoner's chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. "But you'll find that death is a far more merciful fate than what awaits you here. Speak, and perhaps you will be spared further agony."

The prisoner's defiance did not waver. His gaze remained fixed on Eric, unyielding and resolute. "Do your worst," he hissed. "I will die with my honor intact."

He produced a small, wickedly sharp dagger, its blade glinting ominously in the torchlight. Without hesitation, Eric drove the blade into the general's side, eliciting a guttural scream. He twisted the knife, and the general's eyes widened in shock and pain.

"Still silent?" Eric pressed, his voice cold. "You think you are showing honor by dying with your secrets? Honor is a luxury you can't afford right now."

The general's teeth clenched as he tried to suppress his cries. His eyes darted around, searching for any escape from the agony. Eric's methods were brutal, but they were effective. The general's body trembled as he fought to keep his mouth shut, his resolve wavering but not breaking.

I observed with a detached curiosity, my own emotions a distant murmur in the background. Eric's relentless interrogation was a display of sheer willpower and cruelty. And yet, it seemed that no matter how much pain was inflicted, the general remained steadfast in his silence.

"You've got spirit, I'll give you that," Eric said quietly. "But spirit won't save you. Tell me who ordered this reconnaissance and why, or I will make sure you die slowly."