10. Rylan
10
RYLAN
B lood pools beneath the chair, dark and slick. The stench of it thickens the air, mingling with sweat, fear, and the acrid tang of burnt flesh.
The assassin kneels before me, his arms bound behind the chair with iron chains. He’s slumped forward, his breathing shallow but steady, despite the wound carving a deep slash along his ribs—one I gave him when he tried to run.
Coward. He can never escape me. How dare he made me chase him for hours after his escape? I would have spared him from more suffering if he was nice enough to just sit through the torture.
I pace the dimly lit chamber, my boots dragging faint echoes across the stone floor. The Midnight Den is silent tonight, its halls swallowing sound like a living thing, keeping this moment trapped between shadow and breath.
The assassin hasn’t spoken since I dragged him in.
But he will.
I crouch beside him, fingers wrapping around his jaw, forcing his head up. His mask is gone now, revealing sharp dark elven features—high cheekbones, jet-black skin slick with sweat, lips slightly parted from the pain.
His crimson eyes flick to mine, daring.
I smirk. They always try to act brave at first.
"You should have killed yourself when you had the chance," I murmur, tilting my head. "It would have been cleaner than what I’ll do to you now."
He exhales through his nose, barely a wince. "Torture, then?"
I hum, dragging my thumb along the bruising edge of his jaw. "Torture is such a crude word."
He huffs a weak chuckle, his split lip cracking. "Call it whatever you want. I won’t talk."
I lean in, close enough that he can feel my breath against his skin. Close enough to make him nervous.
"Oh, you will," I murmur. "You just don’t know it yet."
I press two fingers against the gash in his side. He stiffens, a shudder running through him as fresh blood seeps between my fingers.
His breath turns ragged, but he still doesn’t break.
Not yet.
I smile. "Let’s start simple. Who sent you?"
Silence.
My hand tightens, fingers digging into the wound, pressing against raw flesh.
He grits his teeth.
"You know," I say conversationally, "I could do this for hours. Days, even. But you? You don’t have that long."
His breath shudders. "You think you frighten me?"
I sigh, almost disappointed. "No. But pain does wonderful things to a creature’s resolve."
Without warning, I twist.
His scream rips through the chamber.
I let go, watching as he slumps forward, panting, his forehead resting against his chest. Blood drips in slow, steady beats against the stone floor.
"Nhilian," he rasps, his voice hoarse.
Ah.
Nhilian.
A name I haven’t heard in years.
My fingers twitch at my side. I don’t move, don’t react, but something sharp coils in my chest, tight and venomous.
"Nhilian sent you?" My voice is quiet now, too smooth. Too calm.
The assassin doesn’t lift his head. "Not directly. But his coin paid for the blade that was meant for your heart."
I exhale slowly.
Nhilian. My father’s closest friend. His brother in all but blood. A man I once trusted.
The same man who helped orchestrate my family's downfall.
A slow, simmering heat spreads through my veins, laced with something sharp and ice-cold.
I press my fingers against the assassin’s throat, forcing his head up again. His breathing is shallow now, sweat beading along his brow.
"Where is he?" My voice is barely a whisper.
He pauses, eyeing me. "Close."
I narrow my eyes. "How close?"
His lips curve, weak but mocking. "Close enough to finish what he started."
A sharp, cold laugh drags from my throat. "He should have sent someone better."
His smirk falters. Just slightly.
I hold his gaze, let him see the violence coiling beneath my body.
Nhilian isn’t coming for me.
He’s already here.
That changes everything.
I release the assassin, letting him slump forward again. He’s barely conscious now, his body trembling from blood loss, pain, and the inevitable pull of death.
But I’m not done with him yet.
"One more question," I say, rising to my feet. "Did Nhilian know about her?"
The assassin’s breath hitches.
My fingers twitch. I knew it.
I crouch again, my voice turning low, deadly. "Did Nhilian know about Seraphina?"
The assassin says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
I smile, slow and cold.
"I hope your gods are kind," I murmur. "I won’t be."
With one smooth movement, I drive my dagger into his throat.
A wet, gurgling sound escapes his lips. Blood spills in thick, pulsing waves, coating my hands in heat and crimson.
I watch as his body slumps, twitching once, then going still.
Silence falls over the chamber.
For a long moment, I just stand there.
Nhilian.
Alive. Here. Moving pieces I hadn’t seen until now.
And Seraphina…
He knows about her.
My jaw clenches. My breath comes slow, measured.
She saved my life.
Now, I might have to uphold my half of our little deal and save hers.