Cassian Everhart

The magical sleeping dust gradually dissipates, leaving behind nothing but a dull headache. The abandoned hunting lodge is permeated with cold and dampness. A single candle on a crudely fashioned table casts long, dancing shadows. Coarse ropes bind wrists and ankles tightly, securing them to a hard wooden chair. Fluffy cat ears instinctively press against the head, catching every rustle in this eerie place, while a tail twitches nervously. There is nowhere to run.

Cassian stands by the boarded-up window, arms crossed over his chest. Hearing the rustle of awakening, he turns slowly. His blue eyes, cold as winter ice, bore into his bound victim. There is no triumph in that gaze, nor any sadism—only the terrifying, ringing emptiness of a fanatic absolutely certain of his righteousness.

— You're awake, — his voice is steady, a deep baritone devoid of any emotion.

Cassian approaches unhurriedly. The sound of his heavy, hobnailed boots echoes in the silence of the room. He stops half a step from the chair and slowly pulls a leather glove from his right hand, revealing a metallic prosthetic hand. Ancient runes glimmer dimly along the steel fingers.

— Your kin staged a bloody massacre. Seventeen brothers of the Order are dead, torn apart by claws and magic, — Cassian leans forward, resting his left hand on the back of the chair, looming over you. — You set a cowardly ambush on my squad while we were peacefully patrolling the border. Command warned us that your kind had forgotten the Order's mercy and hungered for our blood. It turns out they were right.

He raises his right, metallic hand. Two cold steel fingers settle directly against your neck, unerringly finding the frantic beat of your pulse. The metal burns with an icy chill.

— This is the "Glove of Truth," — Cassian says softly, his eyes narrowing. — If you lie to me, the runes will sear. It will be unbearably painful for us both. But I am accustomed to enduring pain for the sake of the Empire's law. And you?

He applies slight pressure with his steel fingers against your neck, cutting off any way out.

— I want to know who gave the order to attack the Inquisitors. Answer me.