When they arrived at the grand hall where the King awaited, the crippled grandmaster, still chained though flanked closely by guards, was made to kneel before the raised dais where the King sat. His head was bowed, hair matted to his face, and his breaths came slow as if each one was a reminder that he still lived, despite all that had been taken from him.
The King expression was hard, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade. He made no attempt at pleasantries nor offered the man any hint of dignity. There was no use for such things here.
"Start talking," the King commanded coldly, his voice echoing through the vastness of the hall.
The grandmaster raised his head, just enough for his weary eyes to meet the King's. Though there was still a flicker of defiance in them, it was tempered now by hesitation.
"What if," the man rasped, his voice dry from disuse, "what if I tell you everything, and once I've spoken, you kill me anyway?"
