The door groaned on its hinges as Vael stepped into the interrogation room. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, finding the two rogues seated at the metal table, their wrists bound in iron cuffs that clinked against the surface whenever they shifted.
They looked worse than the conventional methods General Voss had claimed to use on them. Swollen eyes, busted lip, and bruises blooming purple and black across their faces. One of them seemed to be nursing what appeared to be a broken rib, judging by the way he held his side.
One of the rogues, blue-haired, appearing fearless, met Vael's gaze and held it. Then he deliberately turned his head and spat onto the stone floor. The glob of blood-flecked saliva landed on the floor.
The gesture of disrespect was loud in the silence.
