Aliath

Interrogation

The courtyard was dimly lit, moonlight washing pale silver over the stone. The air carried the faint scent of ozone, residue from recently dispelled magic, and the faint warmth of burned circuits still hung in the air like an invisible mist. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a night bird cried once, then fell silent, as though even the creatures of the capital understood that something important was unfolding here.

Bitrus stood at the centre of the courtyard. He looked calm, as he always did in moments like this, but the calm was not the gentle kind. It was rigid. Disciplined. Every muscle in his shoulders was set, every breath measured. Anyone who knew him well could see the tension coiled beneath the surface. Kneeling before him was the intruder.

He was not bound. There were no chains, no restraints, no sigils drawn around him. Bitrus saw no need. If the man attempted to run, it would last less than a heartbeat. The courtyard itself was warded in ways few could perceive. The intruder seemed to understand this. His head hung low, shoulders heavy, not with fear, but with exhaustion and acceptance.

Aliath approached first. His steps were slow and unhurried, almost casual, as though he were walking into a quiet conversation rather than an interrogation. Hela followed behind him, keeping half a step to his side and slightly behind, as though using him as a shield without admitting it even to herself. Bitrus's eyes dimmed slightly when he noticed her.

For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Suspicion, perhaps. Concern. Disapproval. If anyone else had brought an outsider into such a situation, Bitrus would have questioned it immediately. He might even have objected. But it was Aliath. So he looked away. Hela noticed that brief glance. A shiver crawled down her spine, slow and cold. It was not fear of Bitrus himself. It was the fear of what he might know. Of what he might suspect.

Aliath stopped a few steps away from the captive and studied him quietly. The man did not look up at first. He simply breathed, slow and steady, as though he were resting between tasks rather than kneeling before the two most dangerous men in the empire.

"What have you learned?" Aliath asked.

Bitrus inclined his head slightly. "Very little," he replied. "He claims they were not sent to attack. Only to test how long they could move undetected."

Aliath crouched, lowering himself until his eyes met the captive's. There was curiosity in his gaze. Not anger. Not hostility. Genuine curiosity, like a scholar presented with an unexpected problem.

"And who sent you?" Aliath asked.

The man lifted his head. His face was lined with scars that told stories of battles long past. His eyes were tired, but steady. He looked at Aliath without hatred, without fear, almost with mild interest.

"We were never told," he said. "Orders came through intermediaries. If we failed, we failed. If we succeeded, we disappeared."

Aliath watched him for a moment longer. "You do not seem afraid."

The man shrugged faintly. "Fear changes nothing."

Bitrus shifted slightly at that answer. His jaw tightened. He did not like the man's tone. Not because it was disrespectful, but because it was honest. There was something unsettling about honesty delivered without hesitation.

Aliath stood again, brushing dust from his robe as though he had knelt in a garden rather than before an enemy.

"Your group was skilled," he said. "The cloaking spell was well constructed. Not perfect. But clever."

The man allowed himself a faint smile. "We practised for weeks."

Bitrus spoke then, his voice firm. "You were seen because of your own arrogance. You moved too confidently. The spell left traces."