The soldier who had led her, his face a mask of shame beneath the brim of his helm, stood near the barred cell. His wide-eyed watchfulness had devolved into genuine panic. His breath came out in short, heavy gusts, fogging the damp air. He clenched his fists, fidgeting with the leather strap on his sword hilt, unable to tear his eyes away, yet wishing desperately that he could. He has locked her up behind the cold, metallic bars as they waited anxiously for her pain.
The Delegated Interrogator entered. He was tall, gaunt, and dressed in heavy leather. He didn't just walk; he moved with a deliberate, slow pace that seemed to make the very air around him denser. The lamp he carried did little to fight the oppressive darkness, only highlighting the disturbing sheen on the instruments. The smell of blood and damp stone seemed to intensify with his presence, making him seem like an extension of the chamber itself.
He stopped directly in front of the bars. His height was imposing, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his dull grey, emotionless eyes. He entered the cell and with the least bit of sympathy, began.
"Step forward," his voice was a dry, rasping monotone.
She obeyed, crawling to the bars.
"You do not remember your name," the interrogator stated. He leaned closer, the proximity a violation, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "That is unfortunate. Because what you have forgotten, we will remind you of. The body remembers what the mind denies."
He reached into his pocket and produced a tarnished object. This time, it wasn't a ring, but a small, heavy military insignia—the crudely stamped head of a serpent biting its own tail. He held it up to the lamplight.
"Tell me what this is," he commanded. "It was found stitched into the lining of your dress. Is it a rank? A unit marker? Who gave it to you?"
She stared at the insignia, her mind blank. The amnesia was a cruel joke—she was being judged, perhaps executed, for a memory she physically could not access. What... when had searched me?
"I… I don't know," she confessed, the despair in her voice palpable. The simple admission of her ignorance was already a form of mental torture.
The interrogator's lips curled up in that slightest, sickening smile.
"The truth is not about memory. The truth is about consequence."
He didn't drop the insignia. Instead, he crushed it slowly, deliberately, between two fingers, the metal groaning under his strength until it was a twisted scrap. The sound was a sharp, tiny snap of hope.
"If you refuse to identify this object, we will assume you know what it is, and that you are protecting others. The consequence for protecting traitors… is extreme. It begins with the crushing of will."
He turned, walking slowly to the table. As he examined a long, rusted rod, the soldier near the wall finally cracked. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples for a desperate, futile second before forcing his eyes back open, fixated on the floor instead of the scene. He was powerless.
The interrogator looked back at the girl, who was now weeping silently. He had her strapped to a wooden chair, tightly secured by the leather straps.
"The General wants to know three things before morning, trespasser. Your name. Who sent you. And how you bypassed the barrier. If you cannot answer, we will begin reminding you of the pain you deserve for your silence."
He slid the cold, rusted rod along the cell bars, creating a harsh, grating sound that made the soldier jump. The rod stopped just an inch from her face, and she pressed herself back against the icy stone. The Interrogator's looming, emotionless presence was the first and most painful step of the torture.The interrogator was using her own fear and amnesia against her, making her the architect of her own doom. The soldier desperately wanted to intervene, but the General's command was iron. Disobedience meant he would take her place on that bloody floor.
The soldier, leaning against the far wall, shifted his weight. His face was hidden in the shadows, but his knuckles were white as he clenched the hilt of his sword. He knew the game,he had to witness it countless times. Never once had it seemed any less cruel.
What followed after was her shrill, pained ,tortured screams amid sobs and gasps. For effective containment, she was now held back, not by the leather straps but old rusted chains. Being chained to the stone wall, she had no way of escape. Her wrists, ankles and neck were held back by the cold metallic cuff connected to the chains. No matter how much she pleaded, it didn't stop. It only got worse.