"This is wrong…"
The thought surfaced uninvited, thin and fragile, and vanished the moment his fist landed again. There was no pause between thought and motion. There never was. This was no longer an act so much as a routine, one his body remembered better than his mind ever could. The thick smell of rust and copper drilled into his nose, sharp and familiar. He had long since grown used to it.
"This is wrong…"
Every time his fists fell, a weak plea followed, as predictable as the impact itself. Barely more than a whimper now, the disfigured face had no strength left to bargain. Earlier threats had dissolved into pathetic begging, stripped of pride, stripped of meaning. He did not stop. His knuckles struck wet, unyielding bone, the sound dull and intimate. He could see the fear in the man's eyes.
This was not the fear of a higher power. It was not the fear of pain. Pain had already passed its limit. This was instinctive, animal fear. Fear of death. Fear of the ending that loomed closer with every breath.
"This is wrong…"
Someone behind him shifted, boots scraping softly against stone. The squad was here to capture the broken body beneath his fists, but given the scene unfolding before them, even they wanted it to end. None dared to intervene. They knew better. He could take all of them and still walk away if it came to a fight. Fear kept them rooted in place, silent witnesses to something they would never speak of.
"When would this end…"
Another crack rang out near the jaw. A few flinched. A few turned their heads, as though looking away might absolve them.
"I want to stop…"
He knew exactly how this would end. A few more strikes, and the body would cease its sounds altogether. No pleas. No breath. Silence. Yet he could not stop, even if he wanted to. He had done this for years now. The motions lived deeper than thought, deeper than choice. They came naturally, no matter how much he despised himself for it.
This was the bargain. Protect his family, or torture strangers whose names he would never learn. He was not about to play the hero.
"Kyren!"
A new figure emerged from thin air.
There it is.
Kyren halted his fist midway through the next weak plea, muscles locking in place. Relief crept in, unwelcome but undeniable. He could finally stop pretending.
He released the collar. The body hit the wet ground with a hollow splash. Kyren shook the blood from his knuckles and let the rain wash them clean against the stone floor, watching crimson spiral away into nothing.
"What does the arbiter want?"
His voice was deep and intimidating, heavy with indifference, as though nothing that had happened here deserved even a second thought.
"The director wants to meet you," the man replied. His voice was fearful but controlled. "He questions your aggressive behavior toward a target you were ordered to capture."
Kyren did not answer. This was routine. The director, or rather the deputy, would summon him to make a public show of discipline, a performance meant to reassure the other overseers that stepping out of line carried consequences.
The order to capture this man had never meant only that. The deputy director had wanted him broken as well, but that was not in the order. Now that the task was complete, it was time to report.
Kyren fixed the messenger with a long stare before turning away. His people followed without question.
The arbiter wielded more authority than Kyren ever had on paper, yet a single look from Kyren was enough to still his tongue. Authority, it seemed, could be granted or seized, but it endured only in the hands of those who could command it. For what is a king, if his rule survives only so long as his subjects choose to listen?
Kyren never made a spectacle of it. He knew where to draw the line. Outshining the master was foolish, especially when the master also had superiors.
As he walked, he raised his hand. A thin sword appeared in his grasp. Calling it a sword was generous; its blade was little more than a shimmering thread, yet it glowed as he lifted it.
The thread-thin blade flared with blue radiance as Kyren brought it down in a swift, merciless arc. The strike cleaved neither flesh nor stone. It cut space itself. Reality parted like drawn curtains, and a blue portal bloomed in the emptiness he had carved.
The sword was a vestige, forged from the remnants of a powerful heka who once wielded a similar ability. Kyren himself was a heka, though his own powers were far too obscure for others to discern.
The portal would not remain open for long. Kyren dismissed the sword and stepped through, drawing a cigarette from his coat pocket as he did. His red eyes caught and reflected the portal's blue glow.
Not all of his squad followed him. Only two entered the blue with Kyren. The rest stayed behind, obeying orders without question, lifting the moribund man and carrying him away as the portal closed like a held breath. The arbiter had already departed.
Tobacco greeted Kyren as he knocked and entered the right-hand's office. A tall man with a bulky build stood within. Kyren's cigarette lit on its own as he entered.
The deputy director was not smoking, though half a cigar rested in the ashtray. As Kyren entered and his men remained outside, the guy drained the last of the alcohol in his glass.
"Kyren Micaiah," he said, like a teacher addressing a familiar problem. "Take a seat."
Kyren was uninterested. He knew the script. A lecture about obedience, followed by punishment.
This time, however, it veered off course.
"Do you know why our organization is called The Sun's Messengers?" The deputy director curled his hand into a fist and set it on the table.
One word was written across his knuckles.
Chief.
Kyren understood immediately. The chief was listening. That alone was not alarming. It was rare, but not unheard of.
What unsettled him was the risk the deputy director took in revealing it so discreetly.
Something was wrong.
"Why?" Kyren asked with his tone unchanged.