******
The scent of blood hung thick in the underground interrogation chamber. Silver dust lingered in the air like poison, and Alistair Ashthorne slumped against the pole he was chained to, his breathing shallow, his skin blistered and raw from repeated sprays of wolfsbane. The pain etched into his face seemed endless, but beneath it, his eyes held a quiet, unreadable calm.
Astrid Voss stood silently, her arms crossed as she studied the wreck of the boy before her.
Magnus Thorn leaned on the table nearby, flicking dried blood from his gloves as he grunted, "So… what do you think we should do now?"
Astrid's gaze didn't waver. "Something's off."
Magnus raised a brow, glancing between her and the chained Alistair. "Off how? He admitted he's Crimson Hunt. That makes things simple. We dispose of him. Case closed."
