The clang of the closing gates echoed through the smuggler’s den, a final, guttural pronouncement. Zariyan stared at the narrowing gap of twilight, her breath catching. Targan had bought the district. He hadn’t just locked them in; he had sealed her fate. The Weeping Wards, designed to keep disease out, now served as an inescapable cage, penning her with the very man she was trying to flee. “No time to gawk,” Farhad’s voice cut through the haze of her dread. “The midday ebb won’t last forever. The relic you seek is a Carven Oculus, nestled within the Shard-Weave Grotto. It’s a sphere of solidified night, said to shimmer with the preserved memories of the drowned.” He pushed open the rough-hewn opening he’d revealed, a gust of damp, earthy air billowing out. Beyond lay a passage carved from dark, slick stone, descending into a suffocating blackness. A faint, briny scent mingled with something else, something metallic and ancient. Farhad handed her a flickering lantern, its light barely piercing the gloom. “Beware the ‘Whispering Grasp’ currents. They’ll pull you into the deeper chasms. Follow the vein of volcanic glass in the rock until it splits; the grotto is to the left.” He gave her a hard stare. “Don’t fail. I don’t deal in second chances.” The iron gates outside groaned to a final halt, a sound that vibrated through the very rock beneath her feet. It was done. Cornered. Zariyan clutched the lantern, its heat a small comfort against the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the damp air. She descended into the dark, the passageway narrowing until it squeezed the air from her lungs. The descent was long, the air growing colder, heavier. Water began to seep from the walls, forming shallow pools that reflected the lantern’s weak glow. The dark mineral vein was difficult to follow, often disappearing beneath layers of barnacles and ancient silt. Her memories of the book's lore flickered, disjointed fragments about the Sunken Ruins being a place of unspeakable rituals, where the old blood-gods of Otharys once demanded tribute long before Targan’s lineage claimed the empire. She rounded a bend, the passage opening into a vast, vaulted chamber. The air here was still, humid, and heavy with the scent of decay. Moonlight, impossibly, filtered down from a distant fissure in the ceiling, illuminating a murky pool of water that filled the hollow. Stone pilings, adorned with grotesque carvings of skeletal figures, jutted from the water like broken teeth. This was the Shard-Weave Grotto. But something was wrong. The air, despite its stillness, vibrated with a recent disturbance. A choked gasp escaped her. A figure, sprawling half in the water, half on a slick slab of stone, was undeniably a smuggler, identifiable by the crude, woven Xarishan tunic. His throat was a ruin, a dark, gurgling mess, and his eyes stared blankly at the moon-dappled ceiling. Beyond him, near the stone wall, a small fire flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. And standing over the fire, his back to her, was a man whose presence alone seemed to leach all warmth from the subterranean hall. Targan. Here. Already. Her blood turned to glacial sludge. How? How had he beaten her? He turned, his golden eyes sweeping the hollow, settling on the corpse. A low, dangerous hum emanated from him. He knelt, not to examine the body, but to retrieve something from the dead man’s clenched fist. A cloak. A simple, dark-grey cloak, unremarkable save for a faint, lingering scent. *Her* scent. The disguise kit was not perfect. It only masked for so long. And Targan, damn him, was a bloodhound. He crushed the cloak in his hand, his gaze hardening into something sharper than chipped flint. “You,” he rasped, his voice a low growl that echoed off the damp stone. He wasn’t speaking to the dead smuggler. He was speaking to her. “You thought this would protect her?” He flung the cloak into the fire, where it hissed and dissolved into embers. “A foolish notion.” Zariyan scrambled backward, her foot splashing in a shallow puddle. The sound, small as it was, cut through the underground silence. Targan’s head snapped up, his golden gaze piercing the shadows where she’d been. There was no time to flee. She dived into a narrow crevice between two ancient pilings, pulling herself into a suffocatingly tight alcove. The rough stone scraped her skin, and the air was thick with stagnant dust, but it was the only cover available. Her ribs rattled with a frantic, fluttering terror. She pressed herself against the cold rock, trying to regulate her breathing, to vanish into the darkness. Through a tiny gap in the stone, she watched Targan move. He stalked the chamber’s edge, his movements precise, predatory. Each step resonated through the ground, vibrating up her spine. He paused at the pool’s edge, his silhouette stark against the moonlit water, then turned, his path bringing him directly towards her hiding place. He was searching. For her. The suffocating air grew heavier, thick with Targan’s proximity. He was close. So close she could almost feel the heat emanating from him, could almost hear his own breathing over the frantic drum of her pulse. His shadow stretched long, enveloping her sliver of darkness. Then he stopped. Directly in front of her alcove. She dared not breathe. Every muscle in her body screamed for release. She closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear. But then, a strange warmth bloomed in her left hand, the one that had begun to rot only hours ago. A tingling sensation spread from her fingertips, a soft thrumming beneath the skin. She opened her eyes, startled. The ash-like decay that had been creeping up her wrist, the dull grey discolouration, was receding. The skin, raw and flaking moments ago, was knitting itself together, regaining its healthy, vibrant tone. The agony of the soul-rot, a constant, dull ache, simply vanished. Her hand, perfectly whole, flexed without pain. His proximity. It was him. Targan, the man fated to ritualistically sacrifice her, was the only cure for the curse that consumed her. The realization was a cold, sharp blade to the gut. She was tethered to him, not just by prophecy, but by her very essence. He was both her doom and her salvation. The irony was a bitter taste in her mouth, mingling with the metallic tang of fear. Targan didn’t move. He stood there, a silent, imposing monolith, his presence utterly overwhelming. The air grew impossibly taut. Then, a low voice, barely a whisper, yet resonating with chilling clarity, drifted into her hiding spot. It was so close, she felt the words vibrate against the stone, against her very skin. “I can hear your erratic heartbeat, my little runaway.”

The Sunken Interrogation