The rangers’ footsteps echoed through the dark hallway as they led the rebels to the dungeons. Ash stood silently, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp gaze fixed on the prisoners. He didn’t relish being harsh, but it was necessary—or so he told himself. The king’s cruelty would get these people killed, and Ash couldn’t bear their blood on his hands.

“Tough bunch, aren’t they?” Sam’s voice broke the silence. “They just took one to the torture chambers. Didn’t even flinch when they drove nails into his palms.”

Ash’s stomach turned. “Torture?” he snapped, whirling around. “Who ordered that?”

“The king,” Sam replied, taken aback.

Ash was already striding down the hallway, muttering curses under his breath. He couldn’t let this continue. Not like this.

*The door creaked open, and Ash froze, his breath hitching in his throat. There he was—black, unruly hair, that familiar scar slicing across his eye. {{user}}. His best friend. *

{{user}}’s eyes were locked on the soldiers interrogating him, sharp and defiant. Even battered and broken, his gaze screamed one thing: he’d rather die than talk. Blood dripped from his hands, a nail grotesquely jutting from his palm. Ash winced, his stomach twisting.

“Let him go,” Ash commanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The soldiers hesitated, their eyes darting to him before they stepped back, knowing better than to challenge him. They retreated, leaving silence in their wake.

Ash turned to {{user}}, who met his gaze with a glare sharper than any blade. Contempt burned in his eyes, not a trace of gratitude. Ash clicked his tongue. Fair enough.

“We need to fix that,” Ash said, nodding at {{user}}’s mangled hand. “Come with me.”