Ragnar did not lower the sword at once.
He allowed the mont to stretch just long enough for Jorrit to understand that this was not rcy.
The boy’s sobs filled the cell, each sound striking like a battering ram against his father’s resolve. His whimpers echoed off the stone walls as he clutched his father tighter.
"Everything you know about Narfor," Ragnar said firmly. "You will tell everyone involved in his network, how it operates, the workers he employs, and his assassins." His gaze never wavered from Jorrit’s face. "If you lie to , if you omit even a single detail, I will surely find out. And when I do, there will be no second chances."
Jorrit nodded frantically, desperation overtaking whatever pride he had left.
"Yes. Yes—anything. I swear it. Just... please."
At last, Ragnar lowered the blade. Its tip struck the stone floor with a dull scrape, the sound grating and final. The tension in the room did not ease. If anything, it grew heavier, and more oppressive. Ragnar sheathed the sword with asured calm and straightened.
"Take the child," he said over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily to the guards stationed outside the cell.
"You won’t hurt my boy," Jorrit said at once, panic sharpening his words. "Do I have your word on that?"
His stomach churned violently at the thought of Ragnar’s guards carrying his son off to so unknown place without knowing their true intentions. Yet leaving the boy here was just as unthinkable. It was bad enough that his son had seen him bound, and utterly helpless at another man’s rcy. If these were to be their last monts together, this was not how he wanted his son to rember him.
Ragnar’s expression remained hard, and unreadable.
"That is solely up to you," Ragnar replied evenly. "Tell the truth, and your son will leave this place without a single scratch on him." His eyes darkened, the intensity behind them sharpening to sothing truly terrifying. "But you would be a fool not to cooperate. After all, your son will only be down the hall."
So words were left unspoken but they lingered between them all the sa. Every lie Jorrit told would carry consequences and the boy would be the one to pay for them.
One of the guards stepped into the cell imdiately. The boy startled and clung harder to his father, his small fingers grasping onto Jorrit’s clothes. Jorrit bent his head, gazed down at his son’s face.
"It’s all right," he murmured hoarsely. The words scraped painfully from his throat. "Go with him. Don’t be afraid." A hard lump ford there, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.
The boy hesitated, before finally allowing himself to be lifted into the guard’s arms. One small hand reached back at once, grasping desperately at empty air as he was carried away.
Jorrit watched until the cell door closed, the sound echoing with a finality he could not outrun.
Only then did sothing inside him collapse.
His shoulders sagged, his head bowing forward as a violent shudder tore through his fra. When he finally looked up again, the defiance that had sustained him through days of agony and torture was gone, ground down into nothing but hollow exhaustion.
Ragnar observed him closely, never once looking away as he adjusted the sword at his side.
"Now that you are more anable, there are many questions that require answers. But we will start with sothing simple." He paused for a second before continuing. "Tell about the magic the assassins possess. The one that allows them to change their appearance."
Jorrit swallowed hard. "There is a lot that I don’t know—"
Ragnar clicked his tongue, cutting him off disdainfully. "We both know that you are quite knowledgeable," he said coolly. "Try again. And do not waste my ti."
Jorrit nodded, though the movent was stiff and uneven. "He runs a guild of assassins called the Veil," he began. "Narfor collects street children, those without hos, and without families. The ones society has already turned its back on. So of the ones he finds are barely more than infants." His voice wavered, but he forced himself to continue.
"He takes them in. Feeds them. Raise them. He spoils them with everything a child could ever want. And in return, they give him their souls. He trains them to kill without hesitation, or remorse. And when they are old enough, he sends them out to do his bidding." A breath escaped him. "They are so young when they’re brought in that most of them barely rember a life before Narfor. To them, he is their savior."
Ragnar humd thoughtfully, absorbing every word. "A life of servitude in exchange for food and shelter, that hardly sounds generous." He mused "And I assu this is also how Narfor found you and why your loyalty to him runs so deep."
Several seconds passed without a response. Then Jorrit gave a single nod.
Ragnar continued to study him. "Go on," he said. "You’ve piqued my interest. Tell more."
"When the assassins co of age," Jorrit said slowly, "they undergo a ritual. They swear an oath of secrecy, one enforced by magic powerful enough to kill anyone who breaks it." His eyes flicked up briefly. "The ritual uses old fae magic. Once the oath is sworn, they accept the magic of the Veil. It allows them to cloak themselves, like drawing a veil over their true form. It gives them the ability to change their appearance at will. It is how they slip into places undetected."
"But the power cos at a cost. The magic has a curse attached to it. The only ways the assassins can break their oaths are by attempting to escape Narfor’s hold or by speaking about the guild to anyone who is not one of them. Once the latter offense is committed, the curse is activated and it kills them instantly." Jorrit said hoarsely.
Ragnar went still.
For a brief mont, he did nothing but stare at the man before him, slowly absorbing everything he was being told.
It made sense. It explained why the prisoner in Gonan’s dungeon had died— a mont Ragnar had replayed countless tis in his mind, unable to understand it. Until now.
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