Chapter 43: The Interrogation
The sharp click of Lucien’s heels echoed down the vaulted stone corridor, his pace picking up with every step.
Mo stayed quiet in his pocket. For once, the spirit didn't have a sarcastic remark ready. Looking up at the hard, set line of Lucien's jaw, Mo finally got it: the man who acted like he had the world completely figured out was actually hunting for answers just as desperately as everyone else.
Why wield power that ate away at your own body? Why push yourself to the ragged edge of survival when you could just live comfortably in the dark?
Mo let out a silent, internal sigh. Whatever the reason was, Lucien had already set his feet on the path. And strange as it was, Mo wanted to see where that path actually ended.
Lucien rounded a tight corner without a second of hesitation, stepping over fallen masonry as if he had a map etched into his mind.
Mo tilted the charm slightly. "Do you actually know where they are?"
Curiosity won out. Besides, Lucien had stopped treating the spirit like a threat, or an annoyance, a while back.
"Following the mana," Lucien said softly.
"You can track magic?"
"It's just pressure," Lucien murmured, not looking down. "Once your threshold gets high enough, reading the flow is like watching water run down a gutter. In rare cases..." His voice trailed off, his mouth setting into a flat line. "...Certain people can literally see the threads in the air. But that's rare. I've only met one person who could pull it off."
For a split second, his pale blue eyes lost their focus, drifting back to a memory he clearly wished he didn't have.
Mo hesitated. "...Could I do that?"
Lucien glanced down at the dark stone hanging from his handle. "Probably. You're made of raw mana anyway. Unrefined, but concentrated." He twirled a strand of blond hair around his index finger. "It would make things a lot easier, actually. If you learned to refine that structure..." A slow, polished smile spread across his face. "...You'd be a wonderful asset for my research."
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
A cold, unpleasant shiver ran right through Mo’s spiritual core. The spirit instantly regretted bringing it up.
"...I really don't like the sound of that word," Mo muttered.
Lucien just smiled.
Suddenly, Mo’s core twitched, a sharp, sudden spike in the air ahead. "Lucien!"
Someone was trying to slip out through the side exit.
Before the warning even fully registered, Lucien moved.
He didn't chant. He didn't raise a staff. He simply extended his left hand, palm down.
The flagstones beneath them burst. Distorted, shimmering chains, constantly shifting through sickly, impossible hues, erupted from the floor like iron serpents.
Clang!
A sharp, metallic crack echoed down the hall, followed by two heavy thuds and a pair of muffled curses.
Lucien strolled around the pillar, his umbrella resting lightly on his shoulder. Mo leaned out from the charm, eyes widening.
Dally and Rowen were pinned flat against the stone wall, the shifting chains wrapped tight around their chests and arms. Both men thrashed against the bindings, glare hot enough to burn stone.
"You damned Heretic!" Rowen roared, his face flushed red as he tried to pull his wrists free. "Why do you keep putting your nose in our business?!"
Lucien looked mildly entertained. "...Is that really the tone you want to take?" He spun his umbrella half an inch between his fingers. "If I recall, the two of you were practically begging me to join your little crusade two days ago."
Rowen’s jaw snapped shut. His face cycled through three different shades of red before he turned away, sputtering silently.
Dally was quieter, his dark eyes fixed on Lucien's face. "...What do you want?"
Lucien slowly looked up, his pale eyes locking onto Dally’s face. The polite, theatrical air he usually carried vanished entirely. The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop five degrees in an instant.
He didn't offer a playful smirk. He didn't laugh. His face went entirely blank.
"What do I want?" Lucien asked softly, stepping forward until he was inches from Rowen’s nose.
"You dragged a divine entity into a populated valley..."
"---Knowing exactly what the fallout would look like."
"And the second your array buckled..."
"---You bolted."
"Left the mess behind."
"Leaving everyone else to bleed while you slipped out the back."
Lucien narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping into a flat, razor-sharp whisper. "And after setting a fire that big... you're standing there asking me what I want?"
Rowen stopped pulling against the chains. Dally went dead still.
Lucien leaned in close enough that his words brushed right past Rowen’s ear.
"So here's how this goes. You are going to answer every single question I have. Softly, clearly, and without leaving anything out." His lips curled back into a faint, entirely empty smile. "...Understood?"
Neither cultist answered. They couldn't. The look in Lucien’s eyes wasn't anger or disgust, it was total, chilling certainty. They both realized, with absolute clarity, that if they refused to talk, they wouldn't leave the hallway alive.
Mo watched from the umbrella handle, feeling a sudden, strange wave of pity for the two men trapped against the wall.
Their biggest mistake wasn't messing with spatial arrays or trying to anchor a god.
It was picking a fight in a room with this monster.