Chapter 7 – Dain
DAIN
Day four.
Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t since they took her. Every time I tried, I saw that cell. Saw her alone in the dark.
The pain in my chest was constant now. A dull, insistent ache that flared every time I thought about how long she’d been in there. Thirty-six hours, maybe more. Far too long.
I sat at my desk in the common wing, files spread across the surface. I’d spent the morning compiling Korr’s evidence into a single folder. Vareck’s bribes. Hallen’s debts. Miren’s Vasirien connections. And the intercepted messages: coded, but poorly. My contacts had broken them easily enough.
Target becoming problematic. Recommend immediate action before influence spreads.
Thornvale integration provides justification. Exploit council fears.
Timeline critical. Move before High Lord intervention possible.
Torven’s hand was all over this. Even without his signature, the style was unmistakable.
Precise, clinical, and calculated. Proof that Hallen and Vareck had acted on intelligence from Dravareth-influenced territory without verification.
Proof that they were the ones with compromised loyalties. Not her. Never her.
A knock at the door pulled me from the papers. “Enter.”
Callan stepped inside, quiet as always. He looked tired and worn, like he'd been carrying something heavy for too long.
“Any updates?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They’re keeping her movements classified. I can’t get close without raising suspicion.”
I’d expected as much. “The Truthteller?”
“Goes in every day. Mid-morning.” Callan’s jaw tightened. “But I’m hearing she’s not responding the way she did before. Taking longer to answer. Like she has to search for the words.”
Something cold locked around my chest. “What does that mean?”
“It means the Black Cell is working.” His voice was bitter. “It means they’re breaking her, Dain. And the Truthteller knows it.”
My hands curled into fists on the desk. “How long until he stops the interrogations?”
“Soon. Maybe tomorrow.” Callan met my eyes. “But that might not matter if she’s already?—”
“She’s not broken,” I cut in, voice hard. “She won’t break.”
Callan didn’t argue. He looked at me with something close to pity. “Is there anything else you need from me?” he asked quietly.
“Keep listening. If the Truthteller stops interrogations, I need to know immediately. That’s when I move.”
He nodded once, then hesitated at the door. “Dain... when you get her out. She will not be the same.”
I looked up.
“The Black Cell,” he said, voice low. “It changes people. Even the strongest ones.” He paused. “Be ready for that.”
Then he left.
The room went still.
I sat there with Callan's words pressing against the walls and the thought came the way it always did. Not loudly. Just there, the way a blade is there when you know exactly where you left it.
There was another way.
Not evidence. Not political leverage. Something older. Something rooted in Thalorian law that predated the council's authority, the palace's statutes, and every piece of written legislation the men holding her had ever used to justify their power.
I could invoke it.
Tonight.
It would work. The legal standing was airtight. The precedent was older than the building we sat in. I had the proof locked in my desk drawer—documents I never looked at but always knew were there.
I could free her.
And it would cost her the one thing she had asked me to protect.
“Do you stand to guard the truth of these vows if challenged?”
“I do.”
My hand rested on the drawer for a long moment.
Then I pulled it back.
I sat alone with the files, staring at the evidence I’d gathered. It was enough. More than enough to force the council’s hand. But Callan’s words echoed in my mind. She will not be the same.
I shoved the thought away. Focused on what I could control. Tomorrow, the Truthteller would likely stop the interrogations. I’d get the transcript, make it public, and use it as the final piece of leverage. And if they didn’t release her, I’d burn the council to the ground.
The pain in my chest flared again, sharper this time, a heat that spread along my ribs before settling back into its familiar ache. I pressed my hand there, forcing myself to breathe through it.
Hold the line a little longer.
She’d held hers.
Now it was my turn.