The ninth underground level of the Imperial Capital Dungeon, a deep prison where light never reaches.
The air here carries no scent of dust, only the pungent mixture of dampness, rust, and decay.
The walls are covered with mottled moss, blood long since seeping into the crevices, forming dark strands like some eerie heraldry.
Joseph Kadari, once a spirited Pioneer Noble of the Northern Territory.
Now reduced to a heap stripped of dignity, skin, and human form.
He curls up in the iron interrogation chair, hands hanging, ankles tightly bound by rusted chains, wounds festering, in a state even crows would disdain to look at.
He lowers his head, strands of hair cling together like dark ropes, indistinguishable from mud, blood, or tears.
"Speak, Lord Joseph,"
The interrogator on the right approaches with a smile, his mouth twitching, revealing misaligned teeth from burns, "This is your fourteenth confession. We want to hear the fifteenth."
Joseph does not answer.
