Jason looked shaken—but not broken. He remained rational.

  He had been through this before.

  Aleksey noticed it too.

  “You can help,” he said quietly, a faint smirk touching his lips. “You—”

  Guards gathered in front of Jason’s cell before he could finish.

  The door slammed open. Boots struck first—sharp, practiced kicks—before hands hauled Jason out, forcing him face-down onto the floor. His arms were wrenched behind his back and bound tightly.

  “Derzhis,” Aleksey shouted as they dragged Jason away. “Stand strong, my friend!”

  Jason glanced back between the guards, annoyance flaring beneath the pain.

  The heavy metal door ahead opened, its thickness barely muffling the screams beyond. The sound hit him like a physical force—raw agony spilling into the corridor.

  Jason was shoved aside at gunpoint. Two guards stayed close, another two held back with automatic weapons raised.

  “Strip,” the nearest one ordered.

  Jason assessed their positions quickly. There was no opening—none he could exploit, especially with his foot still numb. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undress.

  His jacket and temperature-regulating pants were stripped away. For the first time since arriving, the cold pierced him fully, seeping into his veins. His breath fogged visibly as shivers ran through his body.

  They pushed him forward. The floor beneath his feet was slick—water tinged faintly pink, still wet from before.

  A guard lifted a hose.

  Freezing water slammed into Jason’s body at high pressure, driving the cold deeper. His legs gave out after a few seconds. Only then did they cut the stream and toss ragged clothes at his feet.

  Jason stared at them for a moment, irritation flickering across his face. Then he dressed, expression settling back into calm.

  He had been through this before.

  From the way they moved—the routine, the precision—it was clear they were brothers in method, if not blood.

  But as they shoved him onward, closer to the source of the screams, his thoughts shifted.

  This is worse.

  The interrogation chamber opened before him.

  Bodies hung from glowing chains embedded in the walls—some limp and lifeless, others barely conscious, their pain reduced to hoarse murmurs where screams had already failed them.

  An interrogator lashed a prisoner with a spiked chain. Flesh tore as the weapon snapped back, bruises blooming with each impact.

  “Where are the other traitors?!” the interrogator demanded.

  “I don’t know,” the man rasped, clinging to the last scraps of strength.

  Jason was shoved against an empty section of wall. Chains clamped around his wrists—unlinked, at first. Then thin strands of blue light flared to life, snapping the cuffs into place as if pulled by invisible magnets.

  Jason was yanked upward. His feet lifted a meter off the ground.

  His head struck the wall, dazing him briefly. Chains rattled nearby as the world spun.

  When his vision cleared, he saw the man from the neighboring cell—bruised, bloodied—being hoisted beside him.

  Jason strained against the restraints. The more he pulled, the harder the cuffs dragged him back. He managed barely ten centimeters before giving up.

  The interrogator turned, straightened the tools laid bare on the central table with meticulous care, and then waited—facing the door.

  Footsteps cut through the noise.

  Vindarion entered.

  A smile rested on his face, but something darker lurked beneath it.

  The room shifted instantly. Guards and the interrogator moved aside without being told. Vindarion passed the table slowly, fingers trailing across hooks, rods, and instruments.

  “Which one shall I start with…?” he murmured.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He stopped in front of Jason, studying him from head to toe. Then he stepped to the prisoner beside him, lingering there instead.

  “Business before pleasure,” Vindarion said softly.

  He dragged a chair across the floor and sat before the man.

  “Let’s try this again. Is Aleksandr your real name?”

  The man struggled to lift his head.

  “Da… yes. I am…”

  Vindarion sighed, irritation creeping in. He stood, selected a hook from the table, and pressed its tip against the man’s foot.

  “Is your real name Aleksandr?” he asked again.

  Tears welled in the man’s eyes.

  “Yes…”

  “Someone very high up believes otherwise,” Vindarion replied calmly. “And he has never been wrong.”

  The hook plunged into Aleksandr’s foot.

  The scream tore through the chamber.

  “What is your name?!” Vindarion shouted, anger breaking through his control. He froze, startled by his own outburst.

  He straightened, composed himself, and gestured to the interrogator to continue.

  Vindarion stepped back to the table, palms resting on its surface as he drew a slow breath. Then he turned to Jason.

  “It seems pleasure will come first.”

  The interrogator resumed his work beside Jason as Vindarion selected a blunt instrument.

  Jason watched him approach. A shiver ran down his spine—this time not from the cold.

  Vindarion’s eyes gleamed.

  “He was a contract,” he said. “If I broke him and extracted the truth, I would become a Victoria Nobili.”

  His smile thinned.

  “But because of the… anger I carry… You come first.”

  “That is how much this matters to me.”

  The blow landed.

  Pain flooded Jason’s body—again and again—until time blurred and sensation dulled into something distant.

  Nearly an hour later, the chamber was quiet.

  The man beside Jason hung motionless, breath shallow, barely there.

  Jason himself was numb. The world swam.

  Vindarion wiped his hands on a towel.

  “That will be all for today.”

  He left without another glance.

  The guards released the chains. Jason collapsed to the floor. They hauled him back to his cell, dragged him inside, and let him roll to a stop.

  Jason lifted his eyes weakly.

  Aleksey sat where he had been before.

  “Stay strong, my friend,” he said.

  Darkness took Jason before he could respond.

  “You killed us…”

  The whisper clawed its way into Jason’s mind, wrenching him awake.

  Darkness surrounded him. Somewhere in the distance, a flickering light pulsed weakly, briefly sketching the silhouettes of bars, bodies, and walls before plunging everything back into shadow.

  The cell to his right was fuller than before.

  Too full.

  Figures stood packed together, their faces swallowed by darkness. As Jason tried to crawl closer, a larger silhouette stepped into view directly in front of his cell.

  Taller than a man.

  Broad.

  Blue skin caught the faint light.

  Tahuuk.

  He stood there, shoulders heavy, eyes filled with grief.

  “You left me…” he murmured.

  Jason recoiled in shock.

  He turned to his right.

  Faces stared back at him now—clearer, closer. The people from the spaceport. Broken. Bloodied.

  “You killed us…”

  The words echoed, multiplying, crushing in on him—

  Jason jolted awake.

  He gasped, heart racing, eyes darting through the cell.

  Nothing.

  No shadows. No voices.

  Only the cold.

  “You have been through much, my friend,” a calm voice said from his left.

  Jason turned.

  Aleksey sat there, watching him closely. His expression was gentle—but steady.

  For reasons Jason couldn’t explain, the words grounded him.

  He drew in slow, measured breaths, pressing his back against the wall until his pulse began to settle.

  “I failed a lot of people,” Jason said quietly. “They died because of me.”

  Aleksey’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

  “I know what you speak of.”

  Jason looked at him—slowly, searching his face.

  “I was a general once,” Aleksey continued. “I commanded armies of the Frost Republic in the western reaches of the Empire. To rise that high…” He exhaled softly. “You must learn to carry loss.”

  Jason’s gaze fell.

  Aleksey noticed and let out a quiet chuckle.

  “We rebelled against the Empire. That is why we are here.” His eyes hardened slightly. “But I will not lose more of my soldiers for a meaningless cause.”

  He leaned forward.

  “That is why we will escape.”

  A spark of life crept into his voice as he went on.

  “I have watched you,” Aleksey said. “Your eyes search for tells. For openings. It reminds me of the Empire’s assassin orders.”

  Jason looked up.

  “But instinct is not enough,” Aleksey continued. “You anticipate your enemy’s movement—but you must learn to shape it.”

  He stepped closer to the bars, determination burning in his gaze.

  “You must make your enemy move where you want.”

  A brief pause.

  “That is how I became a general,” Aleksey said quietly.

  “And that is how we escape.”