The frost-runes along the Korvath prison wing glimmered like veins of frozen lightning, pulsing softly as the containment chambers stabilized their temperature. Steam drifted from the slabs where two Valerian captives lay sprawled—men who had been locked in ice from Frostholm's annihilation, thawed only now under strict magical protocols.
The thawing process was slow, methodical, designed to avoid shock or mana rupture. But the moment the first man's lungs remembered air, he erupted.
A howl tore out of him—raw, ragged, full of hatred.
He jerked against his restraints, eyes wide, spit flying as he screamed curses in Valerian dialects.
"Filthy Ostorian dogs! I'll choke on my own tongue before I speak! You hear me? I'll—"
The chamber vibrated with his fury. Even the guards stationed near the runes winced.
The second captive woke in stark contrast. No thrashing. No rage. Only a long, slow breath as he blinked awake, eyes adjusting to the runic glow. He lay still, watching, observing, taking in every detail without a word.
Iroko Ryusei entered with the authority of a man who carried entire cities on his shoulders. His cloak whispered across the stone floor, and the screaming captive surged again at the sight of him.
Mikage Reiken followed at Iroko's flank—calm, unreadable, an immovable pillar carved from discipline and danger. His arms were folded behind his back, but every soldier present knew he could reach any throat in the room before they could blink.
Iroko stopped before the rune cells.
"Begin interrogation."
The screaming one cut him off, kicking at invisible shackles.
"I won't tell you anything! You think I fear you?! I'll die before—"
The rant spiraled louder, more frantic. Guards exchanged uneasy glances; the walls felt thinner with every word.
Mikage leaned slightly toward Iroko, voice low, almost bored.
"Kill the noisy one. He won't speak."
The entire room froze—except the screamer, who only grew louder, now hurling threats at Mikage himself.
The quiet captive lifted his head, studying Mikage as if assessing something.
Then he nodded.
"Do it," he said simply, voice hoarse but clear.
"Then I'll talk."
The guards looked to Iroko, unsure if this was a trick.
Iroko gave a single nod.
Kenji Katsuragi stepped forward from the rear—bow already in hand, expression cold as sharpened steel. He didn't waste breath. He didn't need confirmation twice. One smooth draw, one breath, one release.
The arrow struck the screaming soldier straight through the skull.
A dull thud.
A sudden silence so deep it felt like someone had cut the world's sound in half.
Even the runes seemed to quiet.
Blood seeped beneath the dead man's jaw, pooling slowly across the stone. The remaining captive didn't flinch. He only exhaled through his nose, as if relieved to have the distraction removed.
Guards shifted back, unsettled. Iroko approached the surviving prisoner with careful precision.
"Speak," Iroko commanded. "And speak truthfully."
The man tilted his head, still lying prone on the thawing slab. His voice was calm, strangely level—no trembling, no anger, no fear.
"My name is Jose."
His accent was unmistakably Valerian, though softened by years of living outside its borders.
"I'm not a soldier. I'm a mercenary. Hired muscle. Disposable asset."
A bitter smile crept onto his lips.
"Valeria doesn't trust its own people. They trust coin. I worked for the coin."
Mikage stepped closer, shadow falling across Jose's face.
"Then start earning it. Tell us what happened in Frostholm."
Jose's eyes sharpened, but he didn't answer immediately. He looked to Iroko—measuring him, weighing him against some internal scale.
"I'll tell you everything I know," he said quietly.
"The project, the soldiers, the orders we received, the thing they called the Frost Engine…"
He paused.
"But only if you listen to my demand."
The guards tensed, expecting an escape attempt, a bribe, a plea for freedom. Instead, Jose closed his eyes for a moment, expression tightening, something haunted passing through his features.
He wasn't bargaining for gold or liberty.
The weight in his voice hinted at something older, darker—something he had carried long before Frostholm fell.
He opened his eyes again.
"My demand," he said softly, "is the only price I ask for the truth."
His wish remained unspoken, hanging heavily in the cold air—as fragile and dangerous as the ice that once trapped him.