Cashim left the inn with a weariness that seeped past muscle and bone, settling somewhere deeper where old memories lay buried but never truly forgotten. Dealing with Akan always did this to him. The man was precise to the point of suffocation, his words measured, his silences heavier than threats. Every conversation felt like fencing in a narrow corridor where a single misstep could cost far more than blood.
He had known Akan for years. Longer than most would ever guess.
He had been there when the Emperor was still little more than a boy with too much ambition and too little mercy. He had watched that boy declare war with a voice that did not tremble, then march across borders as if the world itself had been waiting to be claimed. Kingdoms fell.
Citadels burned. The lands surrounding the Adiand Empire were swallowed whole, and when the last banners were torn down and the last resistance crushed, the Emperor had simply stopped.
Just like that.
Cashim had stood at the edges of those moments. Always close enough to see history unfold, never close enough to touch it.
"Thank goodness Lakis is not present," he muttered under his breath as he descended the stairs.
The three of them had once been inseparable. Akan. Lakis. Himself. Friends forged in fire and blood, bound by shared campaigns and quieter nights where survival felt like victory enough. Now, both of them stood openly at the Emperor's side, trusted hands shaping the fate of the empire. And Cashim?
He existed on the sidelines.
He assisted indirectly, pulling strings that were never meant to be seen. The Emperor did not know his name. Had never spoken to him. Even on the battlefield, Cashim had only ever watched from afar, his presence swallowed by smoke and distance. Where his friends stood beneath banners and commands, he moved through shadows and back alleys, unseen and deliberately forgotten.
A necessary ghost.
He released a long breath, one hand pressing briefly against his face.
"Now is not the time to reminisce," he told himself.
Sentiment would not get him anywhere. It never had.
So what if he had once called two of the Emperor's most trusted advisers his friends? What mattered was that they still remembered him. That his name, Cashim, had not been erased from their minds. That, to him, was worth more than any title or recognition.
Crushing his father would not take long. That much he was certain of. The Count of Montecraso had grown complacent, drunk on influence and old authority. Once that obstacle was removed, Cashim would no longer need to linger in obscurity. Joining their ranks openly, standing beside his friends again, would come naturally after that.
He smiled faintly at the thought as he turned down a corridor and descended into the underground basement.
The air grew colder with each step. Damp stone walls closed in around him, carrying the unmistakable stench of iron, sweat, and old blood. Somewhere below, chains rattled softly.
Five prisoners had been brought here initially. Now, only two remained.
One of his men opened a heavy cell door as Cashim entered, scraping metal against stone. A chair had already been prepared for him, placed deliberately at the center of the room. He sat, folding his hands loosely, his posture relaxed to the point of casualness.
The men before him were barely recognizable as human.
Blackened bruises covered their skin. Fingernails and toenails were torn or missing, leaving raw, bloodied flesh behind. Their eyes were sunken, unfocused, bodies trembling from pain and exhaustion that no sleep had been allowed to ease.
The smile on Cashim's lips shifted, stretching into something sharper, more feral.
"I leave you alone for one day," he said lightly, "and you look so full of life."
Neither man answered.
Their silence was not defiance. It was survival. Words had long since lost meaning here.
Cashim tilted his head. "Why so quiet? I did not cut out your tongues."
Still nothing.
He rose from the chair and reached for a box set against the wall, lifting a horseshoe from within. The metal was heavy, worn smooth at the edges.
"Since this does not fit your feet," he mused, "perhaps your hands would be more accommodating."
Both men stiffened violently.
A thin smile curved his mouth. "Or perhaps the mouth would do, for those who refuse to speak."
"You're…" one of them rasped, the word dying before it could form.
They could not even beg for death properly. Each attempt only invited something worse. Heaven itself seemed determined to keep them alive.
"What a wonderful way to die," Cashim continued conversationally.
"Who should go first?"
He stopped before the older of the two, studying him with mild curiosity.
"Is your loyalty worth more than your life?"
"You would kill me regardless," the man said hoarsely.
"Then let me ask differently." Cashim leaned closer. "Do you enjoy this?"
The man clenched his jaw. "We have told you everything."
"I do not think so."
Cashim turned his gaze to the second man. "Do you agree?"
"Then what do you want from us?" the man screamed, voice cracking.
"What answer are you looking for?"
"Whether the child was a boy or a girl."
The question landed like a blow.
"What?" Both men stared at him, confused and terrified.
"You told me you saw a hooded figure take a child away," Cashim said calmly. "I want to know the child's gender."
"I do not know," the first man said desperately. "It was too dark. The smoke was everywhere."
"Same for me," the other added quickly. "I only saw the child's feet. They were white. Clean. Unblemished. Like a nobles. That is all."
"All right," Cashim said, nodding.
He gestured to his men. "Put him on the table. We will start with his hands."
"No!" the man shouted. "I am telling the truth!"
The guards dragged him away regardless, strapping him down as he struggled. He tried to bite his tongue, desperate to end it himself, but metal was forced between his teeth before he could succeed.
"I did not say you could die," Cashim said coldly.
He knew the man was not lying. He had always known. Truth had a texture to it, a weight he could sense instinctively. Still, there was no reason to stop. Pain loosened thoughts. Fear birthed ideas.
"Put it in his mouth," he ordered.
"Yes, sire."
The man panicked. "He's a boy! He was a boy!"
"A boy?" Cashim echoed. "Are you certain?"
"Yes! I swear!"
"Are you truly sure?"
"I am!"
"Proceed."
"No, wait!" The man screamed. "A girl! She was a girl! Please believe me!"
Cashim tilted his head. "Now you are sure?"
"Yes!" The words spilled out in frantic desperation. "Her body was small. Frail. The way she was carried…"
"I am certain!"
Cashim nodded. "Silence him."
Teeth were torn out one by one. The horseshoe was forced in. Blood spilled freely. The man's eyes glazed as tears streamed down his face, his body shaking until it finally stilled.
"Such a short pause," Cashim remarked.
Hours had passed.
"How shall we dispose of him?" a guard asked.
"Burn him," Cashim replied. "Ash is useful."
He turned back to the remaining man.
"Now, you are alone."
"You said it yourself," the man shouted weakly. "Guessing the child's gender is useless!"
"I know."
"What?"
"I said I know." Cashim smiled faintly. "Perhaps it was a girl. Or a boy. I am confused now."
"Girl," the man blurted out. "It was a girl!"
"Do not worry," Cashim said pleasantly. "I have another question."
The man swallowed hard.
"Tell me something interesting," Cashim continued, "and I will grant you a swift death."
"I have told you everything!"
"Then think harder."
Time dragged on. The man's thoughts raced desperately until something surfaced.
"There was another Han Herb," he said suddenly.
Cashim's eyes sharpened. "Another?"
"Yes. Two were taken."
Silence followed.
"I see," Cashim murmured. "Then the child took it."
The man nodded frantically. "There was someone else. Another person before the hooded one arrived. I heard two sets of footsteps."
"Three people," Cashim repeated thoughtfully.
"Yes."
"That is interesting indeed."
Relief flooded the man's face.
"Just like before," Cashim said lightly. "Adorn his hands with horseshoes."
"You promised!" the man screamed.
"Did I?" Cashim asked, puzzled.
Hatred burned in the man's eyes as despair crushed him.
Cashim turned away.
"Make it thorough," he said. "I am leaving."
As he walked, his thoughts churned.
Too many gaps. Too many uncertainties. Akan had blocked much from view.
A child. A girl. Or perhaps not.
What was being hidden?
And why?