Erynd has stopped measuring time.
Here, it does not pass.
It accumulates.
It seeps into the bones, into the joints,
into that dull fatigue that never really goes away.
The light does not change. Neither does the air. Even the pain has become a constant, a baseline against which everything else is superimposed.
He is tied standing up.
Not with visible chains; the Corbins don't like things that leave simple marks.
They prefer bonds that close in from within.
The room is narrow, carved directly into veined black rock,
as if the stone itself had been burned and then left there, frozen in its agony. The walls bear irregular layers, marks of ancient heat. No engraved symbols. No legible inscriptions.
Nothing but remnants.
Erynd understood long ago that this place is no ordinary prison.
It is a filter.
A place where those who can survive the truth are sorted.
"You still resist," whispers a voice.
It does not come from a specific point.
It does not come toward him. It simply exists in space,
like a memory that has learned to speak.
Erynd does not answer.
He has learned that answering is already a concession.
A figure finally emerges from the shadows. Tall. Slender.
The face hidden behind a dark mask, carved from a material that absorbs light rather than reflecting it.
The eyes, however, glow faintly. No curiosity. No overt cruelty.
Assessment.
"You continue to remain silent," says the figure.
"You continue to ask the wrong questions," replies Erynd in a hoarse voice.
Silence. Then a slight nod of the head.
"It's not a question, corrects the Corbin. It's a verification."
He raises his hand.
The pain does not come immediately.
First, there is pressure. A feeling of descent, as if something were slowly sinking into his chest, sliding between his ribs, searching for an anchor point. Erynd clenches his teeth. His fingers tighten despite himself.
Images flood in.
Not his own.
Fragments of text.
Broken sentences.
Words suspended in a vacuum, deprived of context.
...when the Resonance rises...
...the thread must not...
...danger of convergence...
They are not read.
They are injected.
"Do you recognize this?" asks the voice.
Erynd feels his heart racing. Not with fear. With understanding.
They are testing him.
They are not looking for a verbal response.
They observe the reactions of his mind, the micro-breaks,
the areas where his memory sticks, where something echoes.
"They are fragments," he says slowly.
"They are archives," corrects Corbin.
"No.
Erynd breathes in with difficulty.
Ashes."
A tremor runs through the air. Tiny. Almost imperceptible.
The fragments return, more insistent.
But this time, something is wrong.
A subtle dissonance. Like a melody deliberately missing a note.
...it must be contained...
...or the world...
...balance demands...
Erynd closes his eyes.
It's not what is said that alerts him.
It's what is left unsaid.
"You burned passages," he whispers.
The pressure intensifies.
"We preserved the essentials," says the voice.
Erynd smiles weakly. A smile that costs him dearly.
"No. You preserved what suited you."
The pain becomes sharper, more focused.
It tries to silence him, to drown out his thoughts.
But it's already too late. A cold understanding sets in, relentless.
The fragments speak of the Resonance.
Of the thread.
Of danger.
But never, ever, do they speak of successful control.
"You're afraid," he says softly.
Silence.
"You're afraid because the prophecy didn't say she had to obey.
It said she had to choose."
The Corbin approaches. Slowly. Too slowly.
"The prophecy is clear," he asserts.
"No, replies Erynd. It was clear. Before you burned it to ashes."
He feels something crack. Not within him.
In the very structure of the interrogation.
"Lunaya is not a weapon, he continues, each word wrung from pain.
She is a breaking point. And you know it."
"She will be what the world demands her to be."
"The world demands nothing, Erynd retorts.
It hopes. And it lies when it is afraid."
The pressure stops abruptly.
Erynd gasps, his head bowed forward. Beads of sweat roll down his temple. His legs tremble, but still hold.
"You think you understand," the voice finally says.
"No. I understand that you don't either."
A long silence falls. Heavy. Dense.
"What do you think will happen?" asks Corbin.
Erynd raises his head. His eyes are dull, but lucid.
"You're going to try to frame her."
"Yes."
"You're going to evaluate her."
"Yes."
"And when she refuses...
A slight smile, sad this time.
...you'll call it treason."
Corbin doesn't answer.
He turns away.
"Lock him up, he orders. The fragments will suffice for now"
The bonds tighten. The room seems to close in on itself.
Before darkness engulfs him completely, Erynd whispers,
more to himself than to them:
"The archives never really lie.
They just show what the fire left behind."
And in the silence that follows, a certainty takes root in him, indelible:
Lunaya is not being observed to be understood.
She is being observed because the world does not know how to survive her choice.