The group of agents were starting to realize what they had done. A few of them started puking on the floor. It was at that moment that a question started to arise in their hearts.
The stench of vomit mingled with cold stone, acrid and heavy. Their chains rattled in uneven rhythms, echoing like faint alarms.
A draft swept through the cell, biting at exposed skin, making their shivers visible. Every gasp, every groan, every quiet whimper built the oppressive atmosphere, heightening the weight of guilt pressing down on them.
'Why did we do all that without question?'
They understood that they were loyal, but even loyalty had its limits; it felt like they were blinded by the ideal of doing what was best for Norvaegard, without questioning the person giving them the orders.
As they tried to think harder about what they had done and what they had forgotten, their heads started pounding like a warhammer was being smashed down on it.
