The Tower of Questions stood like a canker on the flesh of the capital, its black stone walls absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Where the rest of the city's architecture reached skyward in praise of divine radiance, this squat fortress seemed to crush downward, as if the weight of suffering within had warped its very foundations.
They brought Kaelen through the Traitor's Gate just as the sun set, painting the sky the colour of fresh wounds. The symbolism wasn't lost on him: heretics entered in darkness, many never to see light again. The prison wagon's cage opened with a shriek of protesting metal, and guards hauled him out with practiced efficiency.
"Process this one carefully," the captain told the receiving officer. "High-priority heretic. The Grand Inquisitor wants him softened but not broken. Not yet."
Softened. Such a clinical word for what happened in these walls.
They stripped him first, a ritual humiliation designed to remind prisoners they owned nothing, not even dignity. His clothes, the last remnants of his flight from the Blackwood manor, were burned in a brazier that belched greasy smoke. The guards searched him thoroughly, professionally, finding nothing because there was nothing to find. Elena's coins long spent, weapons long confiscated.
"The brand's fresh," one guard noted, studying the heretic's mark burned into his shoulder. "Council work, clean and deep. This one's official."
They forced him into prisoner's garb: rough sackcloth that chafed raw skin, marked with symbols that declared his status to any who saw. Heretic. Traitor. Condemned. The fabric smelled of fear-sweat and old blood, how many others had worn these same rags before their final judgment?
The descent began then. Down spiral stairs carved from living rock, each level darker than the last. The Tower of Questions extended far below ground, its true depths known only to the Inquisitors who worked there. They passed doors of increasing thickness, each marked with wards and warnings. Behind some, Kaelen heard sounds: weeping, prayers, the mindless babbling of minds pushed too far.
"Home sweet home," a guard muttered, stopping before a cell distinguished from others only by its number: 4-17. The door was solid iron, broken only by a small grilled window and a slot for food. "In you go, heretic. Mind the accommodations. We save the luxury suites for real criminals."
The cell beyond defied even Kaelen's lowest expectations. Six feet by eight, carved from the same black stone as the tower. No window, no furniture save a mouldy straw pallet and a bucket. The walls wept constant moisture, making the air thick and hard to breathe. The only light came from the corridor through the door's small grate.
They shoved him inside, the door slamming with finality. Heavy locks turned, each click another wall between him and freedom. Between him and Lyanna. Between him and any chance of redemption.
Time became meaningless in that darkness. Without sun or stars to mark the hours, Kaelen could only measure duration by the irregular delivery of food: thin gruel and hard bread shoved through the door slot. He tried to maintain some routine, exercises learned in knight training, but the cell's dimensions made even simple movements difficult.
The interrogations began on what might have been the third day.
They came without warning, dragging him from half-sleep into blinding brightness. The interrogation chamber was everything his cell wasn't: spacious, well-lit, furnished with implements whose purpose was grimly obvious. A table dominated the centre, equipped with straps and stained dark from use.
"Kaelen Dawnblade." The Inquisitor was a thin man with gentle eyes and soft voice, more terrifying in his mildness than any screaming fanatic. "I am Brother Francis, assigned to help you find truth. Shall we begin?"
"Where are my sister and nephew?" The words came out cracked from disuse.
"They are guests of the Tower, as are you. Their comfort depends entirely on your cooperation." Francis consulted a heavy ledger. "Let's start simply. Tell me about your father's meetings with Lords Blackmoor and Ravencrest."
"There's nothing to tell. They discussed trade agreements and border disputes. Legitimate business between neighbouring lords."
"I see." Francis made a note. "And the rituals performed during these meetings?"
"There were no rituals."
"The blood oaths sworn to shadow powers?"
"Never happened."
"The plans to overthrow rightful Church authority?"
"Fantasy. Lies."
Francis sighed like a disappointed teacher. "This reluctance helps no one, least of all your family. Guard, prepare him for deeper questioning."
The preparation was precise, methodical. They stripped him again, securing him to the table with leather straps that had been softened by sweat and struggle. The first instruments were almost gentle needles that found nerve clusters, creating exquisite pain without lasting damage.
"Tell me about the shadow cult," Francis continued conversationally as he worked. "Your father's role. Your own initiation."
"There is no cult!" The words emerged between gasps. "We serve the Light! We've always..."
Pain cut off thought. They were artists, these Inquisitors, painting agonies across flesh like masters working canvas. Each sensation carefully chosen, precisely applied, building symphony of suffering that threatened to drown reason.
Hours passed. Or minutes; pain distorted time worse than darkness. They asked the same questions repeatedly, seeking different answers, any admission that could justify their foregone conclusions. Kaelen gave them nothing but truth they didn't want to hear.
Finally, Francis stepped back. "Unfortunate. Such stubbornness serves neither truth nor mercy." He nodded to the guards. "Return him. We'll resume tomorrow."
The cycle became routine: darkness, brief meals, sudden light, careful torture, more darkness. They varied their methods with scholarly dedication. Hot irons one day, ice water the next. Pressure points that sent lightning through muscles. Positions that turned the body's weight into its own torment.
Through it all, Francis maintained his gentle demeanour, speaking of truth and redemption while overseeing deliberate brutality. He seemed genuinely sad that Kaelen wouldn't confess to crimes he hadn't committed, disappointed by such stubborn adherence to fact over convenient fiction.
On perhaps the seventh session, Kaelen had lost accurate count, Francis tried a different approach.
"Your sister proved more reasonable," he mentioned casually while adjusting implements. "Her confession was quite comprehensive."
"Liar." But doubt crept in. How long could anyone resist such methods?
"She detailed your father's involvement extensively. The midnight ceremonies, the blood pacts, even young Marcus's initiation into shadow worship."
"Lyanna would never..." A scream cut off his words as Francis found a particularly sensitive spot.
"Would never lie? I agree. Her testimony carries the weight of truth, extracted through divine questioning." Francis produced a parchment. "Would you like to hear her words? She begs forgiveness for corrupting her son, for failing to stop your father's heresy..."
The document was almost certainly forged, but in the haze of pain, doubt bloomed like poison. What if they'd broken her? What if she'd said anything to protect Marcus? The boy was only three. What horrors might they threaten against a child to force a mother's cooperation?
"I'll tell you a truth," Kaelen gasped. "The real heresy is what you do here. The Light you claim to serve would weep at your actions."
Francis paused, considering. "Interesting. You cling to theological arguments even now. Tell me, heretic: if our methods are so abhorrent, why does the Light grant us success? Why do the guilty confess, the truth emerge, justice prevail?"
"Because you torture people until they say what you want!"
"No." Francis's voice carried absolute conviction. "Because the Light works through us, revealing hidden truths. Pain is merely the chisel that chips away deception. You'll understand, eventually. They all do."
They returned him to his cell, flesh marked by their attention but not permanently damaged, yet. Curled on damp straw, Kaelen fought against despair threatening to drown him. How many more sessions could he endure? How long before pain overwhelmed principle?
In the darkness, he thought of Lyanna, of Marcus, of his father. Were they suffering similar treatment? Had they already broken, confessed to fantasies that would damn their bloodline forever? The not knowing was almost worse than the torture itself.
A sound drew his attention, scratching from the cell beside his. Rhythmic, deliberate. After listening carefully, he recognized a pattern. The old battle-chant, used by knights to communicate silently during sieges. Someone was sending a message.
"Hold. Faith. Remember. Light. Within."
Kaelen pressed against the wall, using his fingernails to scratch a response. "Who. Are. You."
"Aldric. Friend. Always."
Aldric! His mentor had been arrested too, apparently placed in an adjacent cell. The knowledge that he wasn't alone, that someone who knew the truth sat mere feet away, provided strength Kaelen desperately needed.
They exchanged messages through the night, sharing what information they had. Aldric confirmed widespread arrests: dozens of eastern lords and their supporters taken simultaneously. The Council had moved against all potential opposition in one coordinated strike.
"They. Fear. Something," Aldric scratched. "This. Not. Just. Heresy. Political."
Of course. The eastern lords' opposition to new taxes, their questions about Church spending, their demands for accountability, all reframed as religious crimes. Brand them heretics, seize their lands, eliminate dissent while appearing righteously motivated.
A commotion in the corridor interrupted their communication. Guards ran past, shouting orders. Somewhere above, bells rang in alarm: not the regular call to prayer but the rapid clanging that meant danger.
Kaelen pressed against his door's grate, trying to see. Smoke drifted down the corridor, carrying the acrid smell of burning wood. Shouts echoed from upper levels, mixing with what sounded like combat.
"Fire in the archives!" someone yelled. "The records..."
"Forget the papers! Secure the prisoners!"
More guards rushed past. The smoke thickened, and somewhere, Kaelen heard the distinctive ring of steel on steel. Was the Tower under attack? Who would dare assault the Inquisition's stronghold?
His cell door suddenly rattled. Not guards; someone was picking the lock with desperate efficiency. The door swung open revealing a hooded figure, face hidden but form familiar.
"Quickly," the figure hissed. "We don't have long."
Kaelen hesitated. This could be another trap, another test. But smoke was real, the chaos genuine, and staying meant certain death if the fire spread.
He stumbled into the corridor as the figure worked on Aldric's door. Other cells were opening other hooded figures freeing prisoners with practiced speed. A rescue, then, but by whom?
"Can you run?" His rescuer's voice was definitely feminine now, young and urgent.
"I'll manage." His body protested movement after days of confinement and torture, but adrenaline provided strength.
Aldric emerged, looking haggard but mobile. Around them, other prisoners stumbled into freedom: some Kaelen recognized, others bearing the blank stares of those pushed too far into darkness.
"This way!" Their rescuer led them through twisting passages, away from the main corridors where guards would concentrate. These were service ways, used by servants and torturers, narrow and dark but unguarded.
They climbed stairs Kaelen hadn't known existed, each level bringing fresher air and fainter smoke. The sounds of combat receded below. Whatever distraction enabled this rescue was buying them precious time.
Finally, they emerged into a sub-basement of the Tower proper. Their guide paused, listening carefully before removing her hood.
Elena Matthias. The Grand Inquisitor's daughter stood before them, face flushed with exertion and fear.
"You!" Aldric's hand went to where his sword should be. "This is a trap..."
"No trap." Elena's eyes met Kaelen's. "I told you some of us still believe in justice. This corruption has to stop."
"Your father..."
"Doesn't know. Won't know, if we move quickly." She handed them cloaks and coins. "There are others who think as I do. A ship waits at the harbor, the Evening Star. Captain Morris will take you beyond the Council's reach."
"Why?" Kaelen had to ask. "You're risking everything."
"Because I've seen what my father has become. What the Council has become." Tears tracked down her cheeks. "They have your sister in the deep cells. Your nephew... I'm sorry. The child died during questioning. They pushed too hard, wanted to use him against her."
The world tilted. Marcus. Little Marcus with his toy horse and bright laughter. Dead. Murdered by those who claimed to serve the Light.
"No." The word emerged as a growl. Rage, pure and volcanic, erupted through Kaelen's chest. His vision went red, hands clenching into fists that wanted nothing more than to tear, to rend, to destroy those responsible.
"Kaelen." Aldric's voice, urgent. "We have to go. Now."
"My sister..."
"Is beyond our reach tonight." Elena gripped his arm. "The deep cells are too well guarded. But alive. I made sure of that. If you're caught now, she dies for certain. Run. Regroup. Find allies. Then save her properly."
Every instinct screamed against leaving Lyanna behind. But Elena was right charging back into the Tower meant death for all of them. Marcus was already gone. He couldn't fail Lyanna too.
They followed Elena through more passages, emerging finally into the capital's dock district. The smell of salt and tar replaced smoke and fear. Ships bobbed at anchor, their masts forest-thick against the stars.
"There." Elena pointed to a modest merchant vessel. "Tell Morris I sent you. He'll ask for a password: 'dawn's true light.' He's trustworthy."
"Come with us," Kaelen urged. "When your father discovers..."
"He won't. I was at prayer services all evening, with dozens of witnesses." She smiled sadly. "I'm not brave enough to abandon everything. Not yet. But perhaps knowing there are still good men in the world will give me courage later."
She vanished into the shadows before he could argue. Around them, other escaped prisoners scattered, each seeking their own path to safety. Only Aldric remained, solid and dependable as always.
"The ship?" the older knight asked.
"The ship." Though Kaelen's heart screamed to stay, to find those responsible for Marcus's death and extract justice written in blood.
Not justice, he realized as they approached the Evening Star. Vengeance. The two had become indistinguishable in his mind, the line blurred by a child's murder and a sister's screams.
As they boarded the vessel, slipping past drowsy dock guards, Kaelen felt something fundamental shift inside him. The knight who'd knelt in the Chapel of First Light was gone, burned away by torture and loss. What remained was harder, darker, emptied of illusions about the Light he'd served.
They sailed with the tide, the Tower of Questions shrinking behind them. Somewhere in its depths, Lyanna suffered. Somewhere in its records, Marcus's death was likely recorded as necessary punishment for hereditary heresy.
Standing at the ship's rail, watching the capital's lights fade, Kaelen made a vow. Not to the Light, he was done with those oaths. This promise was to himself, to Lyanna, to Marcus's memory.
He would return. He would have answers. And those responsible would learn that creating a monster through cruelty and injustice carried its own terrible price.
The knight was dead. What would rise from his ashes remained to be seen. But as the Evening Star carried them into the darkness, one truth crystallized with perfect clarity:
The Light had made an enemy this day. And Kaelen Dawnblade would teach them what that meant.