Bryle Pyrestone sat stiffly on the reinforced stone chair, his armor charred and cracked from the battle, but still burning defiant embers in his eyes. Thick restraints bound his arms and legs, yet still, he carried himself with pride, for this man had never known surrender. The air around him pulsed with a soft, flowing luminescence in the interrogation chamber. Walls covered in rippling, liquid runes that seemed to pulse with an inner power. Seafoam's softness was there, but a relentlessness too, which made one uneasy.

Myrith Crestfoam wore the silence around herself like a cloak as she sat across from him, her face serene and unreadable. Standing to her left was Lysara Tidecrest, her arms crossed over her chest, a piercing gaze on the prisoner's face. Larin watched from the back; not fully healed yet but would not allow himself to be freed, for this man being a curious man was intent on his mission, in knowing the unknown, hence was able to watch the spell cure Seafoam by virtually small things compared to what he may have read relating to Kirat Empire prisoner's treatment.

"You are Bryle Pyrestone," Myrith said, her voice even, the words weighed upon each breath. "Commander of the 25 Battalion of House Pyrestone. A man of conviction, I presume. Tell me, what fosters such conviction in Larake?"

Bryle's lip curled into a sneer. "The same thing that sends flames running to dry wood: oppression, injustice, and the right to burn free. Your harmony, for all the names you apply, is a shackle. We see it for what it is."

Myrith sat back, and let the quiet between them spin out, her long, tentacle hair streaming over her shoulders, caught in those hidden tides.

"And yet here you are, prisoner to water, where your flames won't burn the prison walls loose. What's the use of burning pointless when it wouldn't do an atom of good?'

Bryle leaned forward. 'For fires are infections. Drown me, but douse not every spark of freedom.".

Lysara's fingers flexed, but Myrith raised a hand, a silent signal of restraint. She pointed to a hovering orb that pulsed with rhythmic glow—Seafoam's [Truth Detector]. It resonated with the subtle vibrations of Bryle's voice, measuring truth, deceit, and conviction with spectral precision. For a Pyrestone warrior, whose soul burned with unshakable certainty, the challenge lay not in forcing confessions but in understanding layers beneath his fervor.

"The truth is not always what you believe," Myrith whispered. "Conviction does not equal clarity. Let us find out what lies beneath your words."

---

The room dimmed a little as the [Soul Sequencer] engaged. A fine mesh of energy surrounded Bryle, its tendrils snaking into the very fabric of his mana and consciousness. It wasn't painful but invasive-a surgical peeling away of memories and truths. Larin shivered at the feeling, amazed by how complex the spell was. He knew enough to be aware of its dangers. Precision could be pain-provoking when probing the soul.

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Bryle's teeth were locked tight as he shuddered with spasms. His body shook now that the sequencer had started to work. Pieces of words started to flash from the energy in each snippet it unearthed-completely incomprehensible, but that was enough said in those words.

"Larake," Myrith coaxed, her voice as soothing as the tide. "What truth is there in Larake?"

The sequence condensed into formless, shining figures—a secret, subterranean network under the city, armory stores, fetishes of a forgotten Kirat uprising. Heads rose, covered but intent; their eyes sparked with the same fire as that which now flared within Bryle.

"A movement," Lysara whispered, eyes tracing the moving forms. "Nationalists. Not Kiratian, but to some ideal of Kirat before Auqua came."

Sharp touch breath, sweat dripping down from his temple. "You may call them whatever you please. They are fighters for liberty. Sea foam moves in by the word of the mouth, but it remains to be an intrusion. They'll oppose you. Larake, the whole state, will rally itself."

Myrith never raised an eyebrow. "And who funds this revolt?"

The sequencer paused, then the lie fell apart: deliveries of arms and supplies from Pyrestone, shadowy backing by other houses, clandestine gatherings in the blackened corridors. The sparks of a revolution, smoldering, were no accidents, but were briskly fanned into flames by powers that wanted to break the hold of Seafoam at any cost. Other.

Pyrestone blew embers into flame. "You sow mistrust, reap chaos, disrupt our trade," Myrith said, her voice low.

"Chaos reveals truth," Bryle spat. "Order is a lie you tell yourselves to justify control."

---

Sequencing complete. The room lightened up. Bryle leaned back on his chair, spent but stubborn. Myrith turned to Lysara and Larin. "Larake is a crucible. A nexus of unrest fueled by ambition and resentment. We must act before the flames spread."

And what do we do?" Larin asked, mind already overflowing with ideas. "Crush the rebellion or flip it?"

Myrith sat lost in thought. "Crushing flames only leads to more sparks. Turning takes caution and time."

"Then we negotiate," Lysara flung at him with an acrid note. "But on our terms, not theirs."

Larin drew closer, his voice even, but curious. "How does Seafoam turn the tide on its enemies? You speak of harmony, but I have seen how quickly an ideology can drown it. How do you keep the tide from overwhelming you?"

And Myrith's lips curled into a faint smile. "We listen. We adapt. We weave truths into currents that guide, rather than force. Every mind is a stream, and every stream finds a path. We show them where that path leads-not by chains, but by mirrors."

---

And that's it. The questioning. Myrith focused on Bryle. "You fancy yourself unbreakable, a stone that can resist the tide. But the hardest stone is worn away. Consider this carefully: Sea spray does not ruin, but it lasts. Fire burns Pyrestone, but dust cannot lay foundations for the future."

"Words," Bryle sneered. "Words only."

"Words are water," Myrith said, her voice almost a whisper. "And water sculpts all things."

---

When Larin walked out of the room, he was burdened with what he saw. Truths he had heard; fragments of an ideology, pieces of rebellion; methods of control and persuasion—the storm went way beyond wars between magic and steel. It is a conflict in the minds, in the hearts, and in dreams.

He leaned into the hall to speak with Myrith in a soft voice. "Bryle's fire is not so easily put out. Other Bryles will arise. How do we stop a wave of uprising without becoming that which we intend to crush?"

Myrith met his gaze with a steady, deep look. "By remembering what it is that sets us apart. Pyrestone burns alone for power. We flow to balance. But balance is not peace. It is a constant struggle to hold the center against forces that pull apart."

"And what if we fail?" Larin asked.