Keira's blonde hair was beautiful. When her brown eyes narrowed, she looked adorably catlike. Her skin was fair, and the zircon-studded ankh at her chest gleamed, bright and dazzling.
They say the most captivating moment a woman can have is when it feels like she can see everything—while actually seeing nothing at all. By that logic, Keira's charm right now was basically unstoppable.
If Victor had to sum up his mood with a famous quote, it would be: "**, **, how many sins are committed in your name." Was this how countless men who'd made terrible mistakes finally went down? The thought sent the young man spiraling into philosophical reflection.
Then he drew a deep breath, rosemary filling his nose. "Lady Keira, I truly have no idea what you're talking about!"
At Victor's answer, Keira withdrew her hands from under her chin and sat up straight. "Oh… you really don't?" As she spoke, the cross flashed and swayed, glittering with every small motion.
"I don't know what you think you know, and I don't understand what help you intend to offer. Maybe saying this is foolish and tactless, but I refuse. I refuse to beg for your mercy."
Victor had considered trusting the sorceress. Her voice was pleasant, her ankh was pretty, and the rosemary scent was honestly wonderful.
But he decided to stick to the original plan and rely on himself—because the Keira in front of him wasn't the Keira of a few years from now. If it were Triss, Victor would trust her without hesitation. But Keira Metz? No.
Keira didn't try to persuade him further. She leaned back into the chair, and the ankh bounced with the motion.
The next second, she snapped her fingers. "Snap!"
Bang—the chair hit the floor. Victor was magically suspended in midair. Keira looked thoroughly displeased. "Why are witchers all so punchable?"
Hanging there, Victor watched her produce a pair of brass knuckles from somewhere on her person. For a moment he thought he was seeing things, but no—she really did slide them onto her fist like she'd done it a hundred times, smooth as breathing.
No wasted words. Once it was on, she drove a backhanded punch straight into his stomach.
Victor had been searched and disarmed before being thrown into the lounge, so the blow landed cleanly—agonizingly so.
Keira said, "That one's to teach you to show a sorceress proper respect!"
Then she rolled her neck left and right, flicked her wrist lightly, and continued, "This next one is to tell you to show proper gratitude—especially after I've offered you goodwill."
Thud.
The second punch carried about the same force, but it struck more precisely—pain that sank all the way into his bones. "You remember this. Next time, you don't get to refuse my kindness again!"
After she finished "disciplining" him, Keira raised her voice. "The men outside—come in!"
The eight men at the door entered, baffled.
"Who has cuffs and shackles?" Keira pointed toward the bed hidden behind a folding screen. "Chain him over there."
They exchanged looks, then worked together to wrench Victor's arms behind his back, clamp cuffs onto him, and toss him onto the bed.
Then she ordered, "Put the keys here. Go back outside and stand guard."
The agents and knights shared the silent, wordless look men share, and left without a peep.
Once the room finally held only the two of them, Keira picked up the key ring and shook it in front of Victor's face. With a casual flick of magic, the toilet lid floated up.
Clang—Keira tossed the keys inside.
"This time we'll call it even," she said. "For Triss's sake." Then she left without looking back.
The door clicked shut. Victor blinked for a second, then quickly understood her meaning: if he wanted to run, he could fish the keys out of the toilet himself.
A petty bit of revenge for his refusal.
Once he realized that, even though his stomach still ached from the beating, his mood actually improved. In practical terms he didn't need it, but being "helped" by a beautiful woman wearing far too little fabric put most healthy men in a better frame of mind.
...
From the bed he could see the sky outside had turned dark, layered with heavy clouds. It looked like a torrential downpour was coming any minute.
"Come," Victor said blandly.
"On it!" His voice seemed to crack the air itself.
A brand-new herbal satchel—exactly like the one his grandmother had first made—silently slipped through space and appeared at his side.
He pushed his cuffed hands into the satchel. When he pulled them back out, the handcuffs were gone—stored away inside. He repeated the trick with the shackles, and Victor was free again.
Originally he'd planned to knock out the guards first. Now he could skip that step. The only regret was that he had to sneak out, which meant he couldn't retrieve his gear for the moment—especially his Mahakaman steel sword and his silver sword.
Just then, he heard Thaler's voice outside the door. "Why are you all standing out here? What happened?"
An agent answered, hesitant. "…Lady Keira bound the prisoner to the bed, then left to fetch something. She hasn't come back yet…"
Hearing that exchange, a powerful craving flooded Victor's entire body. In an instant he talked himself into it—opportunity was rare, and besides, he was already here.
...
Thaler wanted to roar at his men, but thinking it through, there wasn't much to say.
He shoved the knight blocking the way aside, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him as a matter of habit. Then he walked toward the bed behind the screen, intending to interrogate the prisoner again.
He rounded the screen—
A shadow dropped over him.
Boom—one brutal punch to the gut folded him like a cooked shrimp. He hit the floor and retched, gagging out a thin, broken sound. The strike had landed perfectly, straight into the diaphragm.
After all, the one throwing it was Batman—an expert at putting people down.
This punch is for your smug threats.
Without a word, the man in black hooked an arm under Thaler's and hauled him up.
Thud. Admiration for you accusing me like an idiot.
Bang. Respect for you acting like a big shot in my face.
Smack. A reward for chasing after Shani.
Wham. Gratitude for letting that street-tough Ves mess with my **.
And finally—sharing the pain of those brass knuckles with you, for old times' sake. Boom.
Victor released him. Thaler collapsed to the floor like overcooked noodles. He saw Batman lift a boot toward his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for agony.
But the pain never came.
Victor thought about it and decided to let him off. Beating him down to vent was enough—no need to cripple him for life.
With no hair to grab, Batman cupped Thaler's bald head in both hands and bounced it rapidly against the floor until the King's Eyes went limp and unconscious.
With the beating done, Victor's thoughts cleared, and an odd satisfaction filled him. He even felt like, once he escaped, he'd be able to make something good again.
He was wearing the second-generation Batsuit now—enhanced to sculpt the muscles and refine the silhouette, making Batman look clearly different from Victor, bigger by a full size.
Outside, the agents barely reacted to the muffled thumps from within. But the Lily Knights assigned to "protect" the poet couldn't ignore it. They started pounding on the door.
"Director! Master Thaler? You can't harm the prisoner!"
In the middle of the shouting, Batman calmly glugged down five bottles of potion in a row, then stowed the empty bottles away for recycling.
After checking his gear, he walked to the door and raised his leg—setting into a clean, practiced stance to kick it in.
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