The holding chamber beneath Eastridge Hold smelled of damp stone and iron.
Morning light filtered in through a narrow slit near the ceiling, pale and indifferent, illuminating the faces of the captured bandit leaders. Their hands were bound, their armor stripped, their confidence eroded by exhaustion rather than fear.
Isolde stood before them without ceremony.
She had not dressed for intimidation—no armor, no blade at her side. Just a dark traveling gown, sleeves neat, posture unyielding. Marcus remained a few steps behind her, silent, watchful. His presence alone was reminder enough of how they had been brought here.
"Speak," Isolde said calmly.
One of the bandits laughed weakly. "You already won, Princess. What more do you want?"
"The truth," Isolde replied. "And you will give it because there is no benefit left in withholding it."
She gestured lightly, and the garrison commander stepped forward, placing a bundle on the table between them.
Weapons.
