Chapter 21
title: "The Interrogation" wordCount: 2535
The spy's scream cut off mid-breath as Caelan clenched his fist, and the man's blood stopped moving in his veins.
The interrogation chamber smelled like copper and fear. Torchlight flickered across stone walls slick with condensation, casting shadows that writhed like living things. The spy—a wiry man with Occupied Kingdoms tattoos spiraling up his forearms—hung suspended by iron chains, his feet dangling six inches above the floor. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with blood from where the guards had worked him over before Caelan arrived.
That had been an hour ago. The guards were gone now. Only Thalia remained, standing in the corner with her arms crossed, watching.
Caelan unclenched his fist. The spy gasped, sucking air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His whole body convulsed as blood rushed back through constricted vessels.
"The safe houses," Caelan said. His voice came out flat, empty of inflection. "Give me locations."
"Go to hell." The spy's accent was thick, vowels rounded in the way of the northern provinces. "You're already—"
Caelan's fingers twitched. The man's words dissolved into a shriek as every vein in his left arm compressed simultaneously. The limb turned purple, then white. Caelan held it for three seconds—long enough for the spy to understand what was happening, not long enough for permanent damage—then released.
The spy vomited. Bile splattered the stone floor.
"Caelan." Thalia's voice, quiet. Not quite a protest. Not quite approval.
He didn't look at her. His attention stayed fixed on the spy, on the network of blood vessels visible beneath the man's skin. Blood magic made everything so clear. He could see the flutter of the spy's pulse, the way fear accelerated his heartbeat, the exact moment when pain overrode resistance. It was like reading a book written in crimson ink.
"The safe houses," he repeated.
The spy spat blood. "The empire endures, right? That's what you people say. Well, so do we."
Wrong answer.
Caelan didn't bother with warnings this time. He reached out with his power and found the major artery in the spy's right thigh. Squeezed. The man's leg buckled, muscles seizing as oxygen-starved tissue began to die. Caelan counted to five, watching the spy's face cycle through shades of agony, then released.
"Three safe houses in the merchant quarter," the spy gasped. "Two near the docks. One in—" He broke off, retching.
"Addresses." Caelan's hands were steady. That surprised him. They shouldn't be steady. He'd been using blood magic for hours, pushing past the limits Davos had drilled into him about sustainable casting. His body should be screaming warnings. Instead, he felt nothing. Just the cold clarity of power flowing through his veins.
The spy gave him four addresses. Caelan committed them to memory, then asked about supply routes. The spy resisted. Caelan constricted the blood flow to his kidneys until the man pissed himself, then released. The spy gave him three routes.
"How many operatives in the city?"
"Fuck you."
Caelan found the vessels feeding the spy's liver. Compressed. Held. The spy's skin took on a yellow tinge as toxins backed up into his bloodstream. Caelan released before permanent damage set in, but only just.
"Forty-seven," the spy wheezed. "Forty-seven in the city. More coming."
"From where?"
"The Occupied Kingdoms. Where else?" The spy's laugh came out wet, broken. "You think you've won because you sit in your palace and play with people's blood? We're everywhere. In your markets. Your guard. Your—"
Caelan's power lashed out before he consciously decided to use it. Every blood vessel in the spy's face constricted at once. The man's scream died in his throat as capillaries burst, painting his skin in a mask of red. Caelan held it for two seconds, then released.
"The guard?" His voice stayed level. "Explain."
The spy's head lolled forward. Blood dripped from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. "Too late," he whispered. "Already inside. Already watching. You can't—"
Caelan squeezed again. Harder this time. The spy's entire circulatory system compressed, blood backing up into his heart, his lungs, his brain. The man convulsed, chains rattling against stone. Caelan held it, feeling the spy's pulse stutter and skip, feeling the exact moment when the body began to shut down.
"Caelan, stop." Thalia's voice, sharper now. "You're killing him."
"He'll talk first."
"He can't talk if he's dead."
Valid point. Caelan released his hold. The spy slumped in his chains, gasping. Blood ran from his nose in a steady stream. His eyes had gone glassy, unfocused.
"The guard," Caelan said. "Names."
The spy's lips moved. Caelan leaned closer, straining to hear.
"Captain... Verin. Lieutenant... Moss. Sergeant..." The spy coughed, spraying blood. "Kael. Three others. Don't know... names. They rotate. Change faces. You'll never..."
His voice trailed off. His head dropped forward.
Caelan reached for his power again, preparing to restart the man's heart if necessary, but stopped. The spy's chest still rose and fell. Barely. But enough.
He turned to Thalia. "Get a scribe. I want everything he said documented before he dies."
She didn't move. Just stared at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Horror? Disgust? Fear?
"Thalia."
"What happened to you?" Her voice came out quiet, almost wondering. "When did you become this?"
"This?" He gestured at the spy. "This is necessary. He had information. I extracted it. The resistance has infiltrated the palace guard. That's worth—"
"Worth torture?" She pushed off the wall, taking three steps toward him. "Worth becoming exactly what they say you are?"
"Let me be clear." His voice dropped, each word precise and cold. "I do not care what they say about me. I care about stopping them before they burn the empire to ash. If that requires methods you find distasteful—"
"Distasteful?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "You just tortured a man for an hour while I stood here and watched. You made his blood stop moving in his veins. You—" She broke off, shaking her head. "I've killed people, Caelan. I've burned them alive with magic. But I've never done it slowly. Never made them beg. Never—"
"He gave us six addresses and seven names." Caelan's hands were starting to shake. He shoved them into his pockets. "That information will save lives. Prevent attacks. Protect the empire. The cost was acceptable."
"The cost." Thalia stared at him. "You sound like Sera."
The comparison hit harder than it should have. He felt nothing—no anger, no shame, no defensive rage. Just emptiness. Just the cold void where his emotions used to live.
"Get the scribe," he said. "I need to verify the addresses before the spy dies."
"No."
He looked at her. Really looked. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers twitching like she wanted to cast something, burn something, destroy something.
"No?"
"I'm not helping you with this." She took a step back. "I'm not—I can't watch you do this anymore. Burn it down and start clean, that's what I always said. But you're not burning anything down. You're just becoming another version of what already exists. Another person who thinks the ends justify the means. Another—"
"Another what?" His voice stayed flat. "Another monster? Another tyrant? Say it, Thalia. Let me be clear about what you think of me."
She met his eyes. Held his gaze. "Another Sera."
The words should have hurt. Should have sparked something—rage, denial, anything. Instead, they just settled into the void inside him, one more piece of truth he couldn't feel.
"Then leave," he said. "If you cannot stomach what needs to be done, leave. I will find someone else."
For a long moment, she didn't move. Just stood there, staring at him like she was trying to find something in his face. Some trace of the person he used to be. Some hint that he was still in there, still reachable.
She wouldn't find it. He knew that. Whatever he'd been before—the boy who'd loved his mother, who'd trusted Davos, who'd believed in justice over expedience—that person was gone. Drowned in the same pool where his mother had died. Buried under layers of necessary choices and acceptable costs.
"I hope it's worth it," Thalia said finally. "I hope when you've won, when you've saved the empire, when you're standing on top of all the bodies you've made—I hope you can still remember why you started."
She turned and walked out. Her footsteps echoed on stone, fading into silence.
Caelan stood alone in the interrogation chamber with the dying spy and the smell of blood. His hands shook harder now, tremors running up his arms. His vision blurred at the edges. A familiar copper taste filled his mouth—blood from his nose, dripping onto his lips.
He'd pushed too hard. Used too much magic. His body was shutting down, trying to force him to stop before he burned himself out completely.
He wiped the blood from his nose and walked out.
His private chambers were dark when he entered. He didn't bother lighting candles. Just crossed to the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face, watching pink-tinged liquid swirl down the drain.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He gripped the edge of the basin, knuckles white, trying to force his body into stillness through sheer will. It didn't work. The tremors intensified, spreading from his hands to his arms, his shoulders, his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, rhythm erratic and wrong.
Blood magic backlash. Davos had warned him about this. Push too hard, use too much power, and the body rebels. Seizures. Organ failure. Death, if you were unlucky enough to survive the initial collapse.
Caelan's reflection stared back at him from the mirror above the basin. Pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes. Blood crusted around his nostrils. The scar bisecting his right eyebrow stood out stark and white. His mother's silver comb gleamed in his hair, the only bright thing in the dim room.
He looked like a corpse. Felt like one too.
The tremors worsened. His legs buckled. He caught himself on the basin, breathing hard, tasting copper and bile. His vision swam. The room tilted.
This was bad. This was potentially fatal. He needed a healer. Needed someone who understood blood magic backlash and could stabilize him before his body tore itself apart from the inside.
But calling a healer meant admitting weakness. Meant showing vulnerability. Meant giving his enemies—and he had so many enemies now—an opening to strike.
Unacceptable.
He straightened slowly, fighting the tremors, and reached for his power. The same power that had caused this damage. The same power that was killing him.
Blood magic could hurt. But it could also heal.
He found his own pulse, felt the erratic rhythm of his heart. Found the vessels constricting in his arms, his chest, his brain. Found the places where his body was shutting down, trying to protect itself from further damage.
And he forced them open.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. Like shoving broken glass through his veins, like setting his blood on fire. His body screamed at him to stop, every nerve ending lighting up in protest. But he pushed through the pain, using magic to override his body's natural defenses, forcing his circulatory system back into proper function.
The tremors slowed. His heartbeat steadied. His vision cleared.
He released his power and sagged against the basin, gasping. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the blood still crusting his upper lip. His whole body ached, muscles screaming from the strain of fighting themselves.
But his hands were steady now. Perfectly steady.
He stared at them in the dim light. These hands had tortured a man today. Had made him scream, made him bleed, made him beg. Had extracted information through pain and terror and the threat of death.
And he couldn't remember the spy's face.
He tried. Closed his eyes and reached for the memory. But all he could recall was the feeling of power flowing through him, the clarity of blood magic, the cold satisfaction of breaking someone's resistance. The spy himself—his features, his voice, his name—had already faded into nothing.
Like he'd never existed. Like he'd been nothing more than a source of information, a problem to be solved, a tool to be used and discarded.
Caelan opened his eyes. Looked at his reflection again. The stranger wearing his skin stared back, expression empty and cold.
The water remembers.
But he didn't. Couldn't. The memories were there—the spy's screams, Thalia's horror, Davos's disappointment—but they felt distant. Like stories about someone else. Like he was watching his own life through glass, unable to touch it, unable to feel it.
He should feel something. Guilt. Shame. Regret. Something.
Instead, there was just the void. Just the cold emptiness spreading through his chest like ice water in his veins.
He turned away from the mirror. Crossed to his desk. Found parchment and ink. Began writing orders for the palace guard—investigations into Captain Verin, Lieutenant Moss, Sergeant Kael. Surveillance on the addresses the spy had given him. Increased security protocols.
His hands stayed steady as he wrote. No tremors. No shaking. Just smooth, controlled movements, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just tortured a man to death and then used blood magic to suppress his body's warning signs.
Like he was fine.
He finished the orders and set down his pen. Flexed his fingers, watching them move. They felt strange. Disconnected. Like they belonged to someone else.
How much longer could he do this? How many more times could he push past his limits, use magic to override his body's defenses, force himself to keep going when everything inside him screamed to stop?
How many more people would he break before he broke himself?
The questions drifted through his mind like smoke, there and gone, leaving no impression. He couldn't make himself care about the answers. Couldn't make himself feel anything about what he'd become.
The empire needed him. That was all that mattered. Everything else—his health, his humanity, his soul—was acceptable cost.
He reached for his power again, just to check. It responded immediately, flowing through his veins like liquid fire. Still strong. Still sharp. Still ready to be used.
Good.
He started to stand, intending to deliver the orders personally, when his hands began shaking again. Worse this time. His whole body seized, muscles locking up, heart stuttering in his chest. The backlash he'd suppressed came roaring back, twice as strong.
He collapsed into his chair, gasping. Reached for his power. Found it. Used it to force his body back under control, overriding the warnings, suppressing the symptoms, pushing through the pain.
The tremors stopped. His heartbeat steadied. His breathing evened out.
He sat there in the darkness, hands perfectly still on the desk, and felt nothing.
Movement in the doorway. He looked up.
Thalia stood there, silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor. Her face was in shadow, but he could see her eyes. Could see the exact moment when she registered what she'd just witnessed—him using blood magic on himself, forcing his body past its breaking point, choosing power over survival.
Her expression shifted. Horror. Understanding. Something that might have been grief.