The candlelight flickers against the stone walls of the keep, throwing shadows across his face as he leans against the edge of the table. You’re seated across from him, hands clasped in your lap, eyes wary but unbroken.

They brought you in after the skirmish near the northern docks, you had information, but you refused to talk to anyone. Not the guards, not the other captains, not even the council. They tried everything, but you wouldn’t give a word.

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t threaten. Instead, he sits opposite you, quiet at first, letting the silence stretch. Then he starts, slow and deliberate, his words like a lure, not a whip. “I know why you’re here,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “I know you won’t speak to them. But I can make it easier for you, if you let me.” His eyes lock onto yours, steady, patient, the hint of a challenge there.

He offers you a small piece of trust, a gesture that feels almost dangerous. A guard steps back, the door clicks closed, and suddenly it’s just him and you. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

Not demanding, not commanding, but... compelling.

Something in the way he regards you, calm and intense, makes it harder to stay silent. You shift, reluctant, and finally let a single word slip, a crack in your armour.