ShadowBound: The Need For Power

The trek back to their hideout was cloaked in near silence, broken only by the soft shuffle of boots against cobblestones and the occasional muffled grunt from one of the bound thieves. The city slept under the weight of night; flickering lamps cast wavering pools of light, and the streets seemed to hold their breath. Serah set a steady, purposeful pace, eyes darting to every shadow, every flicker of movement—windows ajar, loose shutters stirring, the faintest sounds that might betray a watcher. The three captives stumbled often, wrists bound tight behind their backs, ropes biting deep enough to leave angry welts. Each time one faltered or lagged, Jorin's sharp tug on the rope yanked them forward with a hiss of pain.

At last, they slipped inside a nondescript back door, hidden behind the building. A narrow staircase descended into the cool embrace of an underground chamber. The room was sparse, dimly lit by a pair of torches flickering weakly on the stone walls. It was mostly empty—save for the uneven floorboards and the echoes of their footsteps.

The thieves were dragged to the center of the chamber and shoved roughly onto their knees. Lantern light pooled around them, casting long, jagged shadows on their hollow faces. Their eyes met Serah's with a tangle of fear, defiance, and that unmistakable edge of street-hardened stubbornness—this wasn't their first time in chains.

Serah stood tall before them, hands loosely clasped behind her back, her gaze steady and unyielding. "Who are you? And what business did you have with that crate at the docks?"

Silence swallowed the room. The youngest, a wiry man marked by a fresh scar slashing across his jaw, kept his eyes glued to the floor. The broad-shouldered, older man met Serah's stare with a faint, almost mocking smirk, as if daring her to try harder. The third sat quiet and withdrawn, eyes unfocused, retreating deep inside himself.

Serah softened her tone, rephrasing the question, but still the silence stretched on, unbroken.

Her jaw tightened in frustration. Without a word, she glanced toward Jorin. "They're yours."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Jorin's face as he stepped forward, flexing his gloved fingers, rolling his shoulders with the ease of a predator preparing for the hunt. "About time," he muttered low and eager.

"Elira," Serah called without breaking her gaze from the captives, "Silent spell. I want no whispers escaping these walls."

Elira moved with practiced grace. Fingers wove intricate patterns in the air, lips murmured precise syllables, and a faint shimmer blossomed outward, creeping over walls, floor, and ceiling—sealing the chamber in a suffocating cloak of silence.

"Kael," Serah said.

Without hesitation, Kael nodded, slung his quiver over a shoulder, and grabbed his bow from the wall peg. Wordless, he ascended the stairs toward the rooftop, his figure melding with the shadows.

Myla lounged against a wooden chair, amusement flickering in her eyes as she watched the scene unfold, waiting to see what Jorin planned.

Jorin paced the three kneeling thieves like a shark circling its prey, boots clicking softly on the floor. "You've all had your chances to be reasonable," he said, voice thick with mock disappointment. "But no… stubbornness seems to be your preferred language. So now, we play my way."

From a nearby table, he plucked a slender, cruelly sharp blade—not designed for swift mercy, but for carving out truths from unwilling mouths. Kneeling beside the youngest thief, he tilted the man's chin up with the flat of the blade.

"Do you work for Drosmir?" Jorin murmured.

The thief clenched his jaw tight, lips sealed.

The blade pressed lightly against his cheek, enough to dimple the skin, then slowly dragged downward—deliberate and torturous—until a thin line of crimson bloomed across flesh. Without hesitation, Jorin drove the blade into the man's thigh. A sharp scream shattered the silence as the thief bit down hard on his pain.

"If you can scream," Jorin said with dark satisfaction, "you can speak." He set the blade aside and drew a pair of iron pliers from his pouch, their jaws scarred and worn from years of use.

He approached the smirking thief next. "Some folks think they can handle pain," Jorin said conversationally, "but that's only 'cause they haven't met me yet."

The pliers clamped down on the man's pinky finger, twisting slowly—not enough to snap, but enough to send white-hot agony shooting up his arm. The smirk vanished, replaced by a snarling grimace as Jorin tightened his grip, twisting just a fraction more.

"Every joint's a door," Jorin whispered close, breath cold on skin. "You either open it for me… or I rip it off its hinges."

Still no words.

Jorin's smile deepened with the thrill of the challenge. He turned to the third man, the one lost in his own mind. Grabbing a thin awl from the table, he pressed its sharp point beneath the man's fingernail. The captive jerked violently, eyes snapping wide, breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.

"Better," Jorin said softly. "Let's keep going."

Minutes slipped into one another, the chamber filling with muffled cries and ragged breaths. Jorin worked methodically, switching between blade, pliers, and awl—his touch always just shy of breaking, inflicting pain enough to fracture wills but not bodies. He savored each unraveling thread of defiance.

Through it all, Serah stood close by, arms folded, eyes cold and steady, waiting patiently for the first crack to appear in their defenses.

***

Jorin had been working the three captives for nearly three hours, yet not a single word had slipped from their mouths. That silence didn't frustrate him—it thrilled him. The more they resisted, the more he wanted to keep going.

He pierced, cut, and marked their bodies like they were nothing more than livestock, always careful to avoid any vital points that might end their lives too soon. Eventually, he ran out of untouched space on their skin, but whenever that happened, he simply called out for Elira. With an almost weary sigh, she would use her healing magic to mend the damage, and Jorin would start the sequence all over again.

By now, he had put them through this cycle almost five times, each new round designed to be more excruciating than the last.

His gloved hands were slick with the blood of all three thieves, and streaks of crimson had made their way onto his cheek, giving him a deranged, almost feral appearance.

"Wow," Jorin said, looming over them with a twisted smile. "You three are tougher than you look—I'll give you that. But the truth is…" He spread his arms wide.

"…everybody breaks. Everybody."

Lounging in her wooden chair, Myla chuckled. "Damn, you really seem to be enjoying yourself, darling."

"Hmph, you have no idea, baby," Jorin said over his shoulder, smirking.

"Oh honey, I do." Myla matched his grin without hesitation.

From her position, Serah rolled her eyes. "Save it for when you two get a room. Now isn't the time for your flirting." Her gaze never left the captives.

"Come on, princess," Myla teased. "You'd be like me if you had a man doing what he does best. But you seem to have avoided anything to do with a man for the last five years."

That made Serah still for the briefest moment, her thoughts flickering to Marcus before she forced them away. "That's because I've been occupied with tasks like these," she said evenly.

"Yeah, you have," Myla replied, her eyes drifting back to Jorin—just in time to watch him take the youngest thief's hand. He offered the man a warm smile, which only made him flinch harder, and then—before the thief could react—Jorin sliced off his pinky and ring fingers. The man groaned in agony, his body twisting against the ropes.

Elira, watching calmly from the side, exhaled in frustration. "Can't one of you just speak already? Healing you over and over isn't exactly easy."

"You heard the lady," Jorin said, draping an arm over the young thief like they were old friends. "You wouldn't want to push a beautiful woman like that to her breaking point, would you?"

He paused, as though expecting a reply. "I didn't think so. Here's an offer—first one to give us the information we need gets spared. Sound like a good deal?"

None of them so much as twitched toward speaking.

"Well," Jorin said brightly, "you're even bigger lovers of pain than I thought." He prepared to take more fingers from the youngest, but stopped when a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Wait," Serah said, and the blade froze mid-motion.

"What is it, Captain?" Jorin asked.

Serah walked forward with deliberate calm, stopping in front of the youngest thief—the one enduring the worst pain but still refusing to speak for reasons only he understood.

Or perhaps, reasons she understood as well.

She crouched down in front of him, her crimson eyes locked on his brown ones. "Tell me," she began softly, "what is Drosmir holding captive? What is it that he threatens to harm if you ever betray him?"

The young man's eyes widened. She had cut straight to the truth. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came out.

Serah knew she'd hit the mark.

"You can tell me," she said, her voice steady, "and I promise you—as the Princess of the Solara Kingdom—I will see to it that nothing happens to the person, the thing, or whatever it is Drosmir has that belongs to you."

At that, all three thieves jerked their heads up to stare at her.

All three thieves wore different emotions in their eyes. The youngest's gaze held a mix of hope and disbelief. The one with the sly smirk had eyes full of distrust. And the one lost deep in his own mind looked up with what seemed like genuine surprise.

"Princess of our Kingdom?" the youngest murmured, almost as if testing the words on his tongue.

"Yes," Serah replied firmly, "and I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to ensure that whoever—or whatever—it is you wish to protect will be kept safe, beyond the reach of Drosmir's harm. But for me to do that, I need you to tell me everything you know."

The youngest's eyes widened slightly, his lips parting again as though the words were finally ready to escape him. But before he could speak, the smirker's voice rang out, loud and sharp with defiance.

"Such bullshit! You think we're just gonna believe you're the Princess of the Solara Kingdom just 'cause you said so? What do you take us for, idiots?" He turned to the youngest with a hard glare. "Hey, kid—don't listen to her. There's no way she's the King's daughter. And even if she was, she can't protect anything of yours. Everything she's saying is just baseless, empty promises."

The youngest faltered, his momentary courage stalling.

But Serah's voice came quickly, cutting off any seed of doubt before it could take root.

"Look into my eyes," she said, her tone low and unwavering. "Tell me if these are not the same crimson eyes as the Great King Tharion Magna himself. I am his first daughter, the Princess of this kingdom, and my words are never baseless."

The light returned to the youngest's gaze, stronger now, and at last, he opened his mouth fully.

"I will speak."

The smirker immediately tried to shout over him, but Jorin stepped forward without hesitation and smacked the back of the man's head with the hilt of his blade. The smirker crumpled, unconscious.

"Go on, good sir," Jorin said with a calm, almost encouraging smile.

The youngest hesitated for only a moment before continuing. "I will tell you everything I know. But you must swear to keep your word—protect my sisters, no matter what. My life doesn't matter as much to me as theirs."

Serah met his gaze squarely, her voice clear and resolute.

"You have my royal word."