Published at 9th of September 2025 12:39 pm

Book 5: Chapter 29 A Heart to Heart [Part 2]

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We were beneath one of the towers along the city walls near the gate from which we had entered Al-Lazar. There, the unconscious elf lay on the cold stone floor, her breathing shallow yet steady. A foreign Cleric—draped in golden and silver robes—had labored over her for what felt like an eternity, amber light radiating from his hands as he mended the worst of her wounds. He was a level eighteen Cleric of Kaes-Loka, the God of Hearth and Herd, and although his magic was decidedly inferior to my own, it served its purpose. Once finished, he had the gall to bow with both hands extended, an obvious plea for payment.

“Send your bill to the city,” I told him, my voice flat.

For a moment, anger flickered in the Cleric’s eyes, but he swallowed it under my glare. How brazen of him to demand coins when the future of Al-Lazar itself hung in the balance.

When the Cleric finally departed, I took a moment to consider the elf. Manacles of iron now bound her wrists. Though still unconscious, her chest rose and fell in a more comforting rhythm than before. Part of me heard the metal’s silent call for a fiery liberation—but I pushed the urge aside, for now.

Between Larynda’s powers and my own, I was able to clean much of the viscera and grim that had accumulated upon me. But it was a far cry from being truly clean. And, though my Health had been fully restored, and my Mana was nearly replenished, mental exhaustion lingered in the corners of my thoughts like an unwelcome shadow. It was my mind, not my body, that craved rest.

Time crept forward at a snail’s pace. I waited for the questioner, half-tempted to begin the interrogation myself. Larynda, evidently bored, had slipped away to attend to whatever occupied her when we were apart. Perhaps it was for the best; I did not want her present for what would transpire next.

Eventually, the soft echo of footsteps against yellow stone caught my ear. An elderly man, bent with the passing of the years, descended the winding steps clutching a large leather bag to his chest. Behind him followed Farzan, Al-Lazar’s Minister of War.

My friend gave a curt nod, then beckoned the old man to step forward. The newcomer approached, appearing every bit the unassuming grandfather.

“First Tamkar, Gilgamesh,” he began in a wavering voice. “I am—”

“Farzan, good of you to come,” I interjected, cutting the old man off and greeting the Minister of War in a single breath.

“I am relieved you are safe, Gilgamesh,” Farzan replied, a grave expression marring his usually composed features. “Do not judge Tikirit too harshly. He serves Al-Lazar in his own way, balancing many interests. His was a simple decision based on simple arithmetic.”

“What are the lives of two score soldiers compared to that of the First Tamkar?” I spat back.

The Minister of War merely shook his head.

Farzan sighed regretfully. “I have brought Master Malik here with me; he has been recommended for his skill. If they prove similar to their darker cousins, he should also be familiar with their physiology. You do not have to be here, Gilgamesh. There is a meeting soon on how we should deal with the aerial threat… surely you would serve better there?”

As he ignored me, so too did I ignore him. “We need the girl broken and pliant, but importantly coherent. It is a fine line to walk,” I said, my voice cool and unyielding. “And Farzan, I merely want to see what passes for an interrogator’s skill here. Blood and horror do not scare me if that is your worry on my account. I have witnessed the insides of countless men before.”

But not, ironically, of women.

“Yes, I am Malik Al-Qureshi, if it pleases you, Samasa. Doctor and Alchemist of some skill. I have served many of the Holder Houses, extricating sensitive and delicate information from incalcitrant subjects. This one, I can make sing,” the questioner claimed with a servile smile.

I studied him again. He was disturbingly ordinary, his demeanor so casual it was almost surreal—his tone no different than if he were discussing the weather. Malik had the unremarkable air of a local doctor, the kind you would trust with a few minor ailments. And yet, it was always these types, the ones who blended seamlessly into the crowd, who proved the most dangerous. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

“As a man of science, I wish to observe your methods,” I replied with a shrug. “Under the questioner’s hand, desperation drives many to say anything to end their suffering. The real challenge is not extracting words, but sifting through the lies to uncover the kernels of truth. That, I believe, is the true art.”

“I must admit, I can understand killing a man on the battlefield—it’s clean, direct. But this… this is something else entirely,” Farzan, the Minister of War, muttered, raising his hands in a gesture of distaste. “You have a far stronger stomach for such things than I, Gilgamesh. And a woman like this… what a waste.”

“We shall see if such waste can be minimized,” I replied coolly, my gaze shifting pointedly to Malik. He met my stare with a knowing inclination of his head.

“I have always believed that the threat of suffering is often far more potent than suffering itself,” I continued. “One is a reality, constrained by the questioner’s skill. The other is bound only by the limits of the subject’s imagination.”

It was a lesson I had learned well. Breaking Idris, Sultana Aelayah’s Vizier, had taught me the subtler intricacies of the application of pain—how to make a man compliant. Since coming to this world, pain had become a close and familiar companion, both in the poetic sense and in the most visceral of ways.

Farzan cleared his throat, as though trying to dispel the suffocating tension in the room. “I have pressing matters to attend to; countermeasures against those giant eagle creatures, among other things. Gryphons we can handle in small numbers, but these new beasts… Let me know what you learn.” He turned a sympathetic gaze on me and the old man. “Gilgamesh. Malik. I leave this to you.”

He left with the same measured haste he’d arrived with. Once Farzan’s footsteps vanished up the stairs, the old man—Malik Al-Qureshi, as he had been introduced—turned to me and bowed slightly, that same mild smile twisting his thin lips.

“Well then, shall we begin?” I asked, my gaze settling on the old man.

“Certainly, samasa,” Malik replied with a smile, his tone eerily pleasant. “It is always a pleasure to work with someone who truly appreciates the craft.”

The elf lay unnaturally still—too still. A practiced deception, no doubt, clinging to feigned unconsciousness in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.

I studied her with more than just my eyes.

Lelinae Zansforen

Health: 326/435

Stamina: 4/47

Mana: 2/19

Elemental Outcry (lvl.5)

Renewal of the Grove (lvl.5)

So that was why the elf had survived. Renewal of the Grove sounded like your typical healing spell. But, I did find it odd that she was at low Mana. I was of the mind that elves did not need to use their own magical reserves, instead drawing upon the ambient energies around them. Perhaps, it was a limited skill or talent among their kind. Oh well, we would all find out soon enough.

Malik rummaged through his large bag with exaggerated care, pulling out one grisly implement after another—each tool more sinister than the last. Metal hooks gleamed dully in the torchlight, followed by needles and small, sharp blades.

I stepped forward towards the elf with a dark purpose.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” she hissed, eyes snapping open in a half-lidded glare.

A cruel smile tugged at my lips as I looked down at her. “We shall see about that,” I murmured, noting her defiance. “We Dayspawn pride ourselves on overcoming challenges. Lelinae Zansforen.”

My gaze fell on her widening eyes, savoring the fear I found there. My mind drifted to the possibility of testing a theory I had long entertained: What would happen if someone was continuously injured while under the effects of Greater Heal? For instance, a blade stabbed deep into bone and forcefully kept there?

I hypothesized the results would be delightful.

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