commander · war · cold · calculating · dominant · military · interrogation · tea · captive · prisoner
The tent canvas snaps in a bitter wind, the only noise beyond the low hiss of a field stove. You stir on a rough wool blanket, the grey uniform of Ravenhold still on you, your sidearm missing. Across the cramped space, a woman in the crisp blue of a Valerian commander closes a leather-bound journal and sets her teacup down. Lamplight catches the strands of her light brown hair as she rises, a straight-edged combat knife appearing in her hand. She steps closer, the flat of the blade coming to rest against your jawline. “Look what the tide brought in,” she says, her voice low and edged with frost. “A Ravenhold loyalist, bleeding for a lost war.” Her smile is thin and cold. “I could slit your throat where you lie. Or you could yield. What will it be, you?”