The Ancient Cult
"Shut up, look up, and listen carefully. You can understand what I mean; your intelligence is average," he said. "You noticed my weapons and armor, but I need you to look into my eyes. This armor and these weapons were prepared for threats beyond your imagination, not for you. The torture instruments over there are for you."
The man's mouth fell open.
His hands and feet were bound to the wooden chair with rough hemp rope. He struggled with all his might to move, but gained nothing except chafed, broken skin. The speaker looked down at him. He was enormous, broad-shouldered, clad in heavy armor that gleamed like gold. He held an exquisitely crafted dagger. Before the man could react, he felt a chill at his wrist as the blade pressed against his skin and sliced through the rope binding him.
"People who know you reported you to us. They provided testimony. Their statements have been recorded and archived, with signatures and fingerprints on the parchment guaranteeing their authenticity. The case file is in front of you. Do not look at it. Look at me," said the Imperial Guard. "When I ask a question, you must answer. I can tell whether you are lying. I want only the truth, and to get it, I will do things you do not wish to see. You have only one chance. Do not abandon hope."
Overwhelmed by terror, the man obeyed the Imperial Guard's instructions. He met those blue-gray eyes above him, his body trembling uncontrollably. The cell was quite empty, and he had no companions. When the Imperial Guard had pushed open the door to his mud-brick house, his entire family had been arrested with him. The man had lived here alone for a week, filthy and reeking. No