“You will tell the truth,” I said. “Not a map of riddles but the path, the timing, the means. Tell us the exact ritual or the exact weakness. Every part. If it’s a birthmark, tell us where. If it’s a chant, say the full words.”
Nero coughed and a scrap of paper fluttered from his sleeve, dark with his blood. Instinct made a hand go for it and stop, because even in my coldness I knew the simple acts of survival had to be observed.
I let the paper fall at my boot. I did not pick it up. Let them see the choice: the paper lay there like a coin on the table of fate.
“Tell us,” I said. “Or we start cutting limbs until you point at the voice that tells the truth.”
A hush. The threat was naked and broken and ugly, but it worked. People leaned in the way you lean into a fire when you’re cold ev
