The inquisitor straightened up, slowly putting his gloves back on: "I assure you, you will talk, only the time hasn't come yet."
The heavy iron door closed, the lock bar clicked together with a heavy thud like that of a tomb.
Visa curled up in the corner of the dungeon, her shackles removed, replaced by something even heavier waiting.
Then, inexplicably, those people never appeared again. There was no torture, not even a question posed to her.
Days passed, silent, without light or warmth. Only the sound of water dripping from high walls and the occasional distant cries, as if the world outside this cell was sealed away as well.
She kept repeating a phrase: "I am the Clan's blade. Blades do not betray."
Yet she also understood that her pride had, in a sense, become a joke.
Someone from her team must have already talked.
They weren't weak, just young; they had no concept of dignity.
And Titus, he would not come to rescue them.
