“No? Then tell me who sent you, and don’t tell me you don’t know. Somehow, you knew when and where to show up with a blade, so I want details about how that came to be.” He wrings his hands, his mouth opening and shutting. “Tell me now.” I will the room to shake a bit, but still, I avoid using the aether-voice to force the confession. I hate the power of the aether-voice, knowing exactly what horrors it can force upon someone. It’s an abomination, made even more appalling by the fact that it’s granted to monarchs who already have unlimited and unchecked power. While I use it occasionally to intimidate or scare, I try to avoid using it to compel.

“There were pa-pamphlets. Th-they told us wh-where to m-meet. It s-said if we were t-tired of our s-situation, that we s-should come and d-demand you li-lift the m-m-mist.” My teeth grind at his words. It’s always a demand to lift the mist, the one thing I cannot give them and cannot explain, not without risking Thayaria even further. If Mazus and the other leaders knew the mist was not wholly in my control, there’s no telling what they would attempt. Of course, now that he’s alone, the confidence and grandstanding are gone.

“And yet—that’s not how the interaction played out. You, who took upon yourself to speak for this group that you know so little about, said not one word about the mist, only declaring that my reign was over. Tell me, which is it? Does the rebellion want me to lift the mist, or does the rebellion simply hate my reign and wish me gone?” Without looking in a mirror, I know my eyes are bright with malevolence, and even I wouldn’t want to be chained to the wall in this room with me right now.

“I d-don’t k-kn-know…” He slumps, his stringy red hair dropping around his face like he’s accepted his fate to die, and the smallest twinge of guilt takes root in my stomach.

“What do you do when you aren’t rushing off to attack and injure civilians?” I ask, my voice a bit softer but still emotionless. His eyes widen, like he didn’t expect the question from the monster standing before him.

“I’m a f-f-farmer. Well, I w-w-was.” Of course. That explains the calloused hands and dirty nails. Just another person whipped into a frenzy by leaders who won’t show their faces or do the dirty work. Without another word, I leave the room, and the Royal Guards enter behind me to return him into his cells. Making up my mind about what to do with these prisoners, I aerstep to my rooms to prepare for my follow-up visit with the Velmarans.