Tarathiel Cray. The name alone explained Sascha’s instinct to stomp the elf into the ground the moment he set eyes on him. Sascha wasn’t prone to violence by nature, but if even half of what Oralia had said about Cray were true, then it would be worth sacrificing the last of his morals by snapping the elf’s neck here and now. Alas, the sturdy line of bars separating them was going to make Cray’s untimely demise difficult to pull off.

“Remind me,” Cray said, tapping the tips of his index fingers against one another in thought, “who are you again? I feel like I should know you.”

“The cook,” Sascha replied flatly.

“The cook!” Cray’s voice took on an unnerving note of joviality, as if this revelation entertained him somehow. “Of course. You’re the one Geralt enlisted to catch Oralia doing whatever it is Oralia does.”

That was, admittedly, a bit of a sensitive spot in Sascha’s relationship with Oralia. They’d obviously worked past it, but he didn’t like being reminded that said past existed.

“Frankly, I don’t understand the bizarre relationship our benefactors have with one another. I dare say, it borders on obsessive. Geralt and Oralia spend so time much wondering what the other is thinking of them, it’s positively exhausting. Just hurry up and fuck already, right?” Cray noted Sascha’s expression and feigned embarrassment, quite poorly. “Oh, my mistake. You probably don’t wish for that, do you?”

Sascha locked his jaw to prevent clicking his tusks.

“Anyway, I told Geralt that using you as a spy was a stupid idea. I suggested having you drawn and quartered publicly to get under Oralia’s skin, but Geralt’s all about his image. Insisted it was too extreme.” The cutting smile on Cray’s face widened. “Would have saved him an awful lot of trouble had he listened to me.”

Tarathiel Cray was Geralt’s second-in-command. Oralia had once described him as an ‘aggressive dog on a leash’. Rumors of Cray’s work had spread far and wide. And yet, despite his notorious reputation, few actually knew what he looked like. Geralt kept his second-in-command tucked away in the shadows, free of titles, status, or any other information that could be used to identify him. Oralia, herself, claimed to have never seen him. Sascha was beginning to understand why.

Cray wasn’t merely an aggressive dog on a leash, he was a mad one, practically foaming at the mouth. It was easy for Geralt to bring his second-in-command to heel when he was kept on such a tight leash, but circumstances had changed. Cray had been released into the wild and, judging from the bodies hanging in the square, was already finding cruel ways to exact his newfound freedom.

“Are you still with me, friend?” Cray’s voice drew Sascha from his thoughts.

Sascha swallowed the trickle of stomach acid steadily clawing its way up his throat. He didn’t dare speak, not even to give one of his customary one-word answers that was little more than an impartial sound.

“Shall we move on to our business then?” The elf was forced to carry on talking when Sascha refused to provide an answer. Cray steepled his hands together and used them to slice the air as he spoke. “I suspect, given who you are, politely asking you to tell me where Oralia is would be a waste of breath. The Speaker of the People insists on his silly protocols, however, so I will do my due diligence and ask.”

Cray took a dramatic breath, as if following a set procedure physically pained him. “Where is Oralia?”

“I don’t know,” Sascha said.

“Mhm, mhm, mhm.” Cray nodded as though he was fully engaged in Sascha’s response. “And you’re sticking with that answer?”

“It’s the truth.”

Cray dropped his hands and offered a sympathetic pout. It, too, was a mask. Just like every other facial expression he’d worn so far. It was unnerving how easily he slipped from one to the next. “Oh, dear. The hard way it is then. Not that I mind, but you might.”

The old buried instants were back, this time insisting it was time for Sascha to turn tail and run.

“Never fear. I’ll make it quick. Afraid I can’t say the same for it being painless, though.” Cray stepped closer to the bars a little too enthusiastically, causing something hidden beneath his simple gray tunic to clink together. He made a face when he noticed Sascha staring. “Lightweight armor,” he explained, drawing back the neck of his tunic to expose a thin coat of chainmail. “Iron, of course. With some silver embellishments for added protection.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He should have kept quiet, but the question rolled off of Sascha’s tongue before he had the sense to snap his confounded tusks shut. “Protection against what?”

“You’re not the one that’s supposed to be asking questions here, friend. That’s my job. One I take very seriously, as you’re about to find out.” Cray rolled back his sleeves with a dramatic flourish and positioned his lithe fingers against his temples. It was the sort of parlor trick you’d expect from the soothsayer at the local carnival. Sascha’s skepticism damn near doubled the moment Cray started to hum. All Cray’s performance was missing was a floppy, wide-brimmed hat and a crystal ball.

Sascha heard Dewpetal whimper behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder at her the same moment a blistering heat erupted within his skull. The raging inferno spread like wildfire, its smoke clogging the internal cogs and gears of his mind until everything screeched to a halt. Sascha’s legs lost the ability to stand. He collapsed onto the cold ground, muscles spasming as waves of heat rippled through his flesh.

His heart pounded against his chest, thumping faster, faster, faster, until it felt like it was going to burst.

Cray’s voice cut through his panicking thoughts. “Where is Oralia?”

Sascha’s thoughts betrayed him. Memories flashed before his eyes, one after another in rapid succession, like a dealer shuffling cards. He saw Oralia and their last moments together before she disappeared back into the tunnel hidden behind Briony’s house. He should have gone with her. God’s dammit, why hadn’t he? So what if the passageway had been small? He should have gone anyway. At least then he’d know where she was, or if she’d gotten out safely. Have a better idea, at the very least, of where the rest of the tunnels led or any other of Briony’s secret hiding places.

“You really don’t know where she is.” Cray’s voice broke the spell, allowing Sascha’s pain to ease from a raging wildfire to a gentle burn. “What a shame. Such information would have been incredibly insightful.”

Sascha stayed close to the ground, fearful any sudden movement would cause the debilitating pain to return. He filled his blistering lungs with a shaky gasp of musty air. His throat felt raw and dry. The breath barely made it past his tightening airways.

“You don’t know Oralia’s whereabouts, her plan, not even where she might have gone. I’m starting to think you don’t even know this woman at all.” Cray tut-tutted from the other side of the bars. He crouched onto his haunches and he gazed down at Sascha, disappointed. “Surely there’s something of note you can tell me.”

Heat pierced the inside of his skull once more, like molten claws tearing through soft flesh. Sascha snarled as his memories zipped past. He saw the days leading up to the raid on Briony’s cottage — the mornings waking up with Oralia in his arms, their nights spent alone, the murderous look she gave him each time she caught him staring at her ass, and the way she nearly died of embarrassment when he caught her staring at his.

“Ugh, boring,” Cray muttered. An exasperated flick of his hand sped the memories along faster.

The images flashed before Sascha’s eyes at a dizzying rate. The invisible heat coiled around his mind cinched tighter. It burned, sizzled, and popped, lighting his internal pathways aflame as Cray swept through his memories at the speed of light. And then, without warning, it stopped. Time froze as the unbearable heat eased to a simmer. Sascha found himself in the woods at night, beneath a spare canopy of shriveled leaves. The crisp breeze prickled his blistered skin as the soothing scents of soil and forest decay filled his burnt airways.

Oralia was there as well. Something was bothering her, more than usual based on the way she looked like a deer one sudden movement away from bolting for the hills. The warm hum of his own voice filled his ears, but Sascha couldn’t make out what was said. He strained to listen but the words melded together into an indistinguishable drone. And then Oralia took his hand in hers and placed it on her stomach.

“Now that’s something!” Cray exclaimed.

The memory vanished, along with the smells of the forest and the cool breeze. Sascha lurched upright, gasping for breath. Panic flooded his tortured veins as he stared across at the smiling face of his captor.

“She’s with child,” Cray said. “Your child, in fact. Which is even better.”

The last thread of Sascha’s strength failed him. He slumped back down and drew his knees to his chest, shuddering as the last dregs of heat and pain rippled along his spent body.

Cray’s eager smile was split from ear to ear “Now this, this I can use. Thank you so much for your assistance. You have been most helpful.”

The elf jumped back onto his feet and strode for the exit. He reached the door and then paused, as if suddenly remembering Sascha was not the only prisoner worth tormenting. Cray’s gray gaze settled on Judge Belfast’s huddled form. “Oh hello, Trant,” Cray crooned, offering a sympathetic wave. “Rest assured, I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ve got my hands full at the moment, but never fear, I’ll make time for another one of our chats soon enough. Maybe you’ll come to your senses before then.”

Cray drew open the door left, voice echoing along the passage behind him. “What a shame that would be.”