Chapter 246: The Rebel camp

Exactly 45 miles away from the warehouse, where Dane and Sofia rested. It was a forest land; not much could be seen at night.

The forest was silent.

That should have been their first warning, but by the time they realized it, the witch squad had already surrounded them.

The Origin resistance camp sat in a clearing deep in the Waerrud Forest. It wasn’t much to look at.

A dozen tents arranged in a loose circle. A central fire pit and supply caches are hidden in the surrounding trees. Forty-three people, most of them men, are living rough and moving often to avoid detection.

They’d thought they were safe here. The Waerrud was old growth, dense, and trackless. The kind of place where even experienced woodsmen got lost. They’d posted sentries. Taken precautions.

It hadn’t been enough.

The witches came at dawn, when the mist still hung thick between the trees. Eight of them, dressed in dark combat robes with their hoods up. They moved through the forest like ghosts, making no sound, leaving no trace.

By the time the first sentry spotted them, it was already too late.

The attack was swift and brutal.

Origin energy crackled through the clearing. Tents erupted in flames. People stumbled out into the morning air, disoriented and terrified. The witches moved among them with practiced efficiency, channeling energy in controlled bursts that knocked people off their feet without killing them.

Not yet.

Within five minutes, every member of the resistance camp knelt in the clearing with their hands bound behind their backs.

The fire pit smoldered.

The tents burned.

The forest watched in silence.

The lead witch lowered her hood.

She was tall and sharp-featured, with black hair cropped close to her skull. Her eyes were pale gray, cold, and assessing. She wore the insignia of a squad captain on her robe, a silver pin in the shape of a crescent moon.

Her name was Vera Kandris, and she’d been hunting resistance cells for six years.

She walked slowly along the line of kneeling prisoners, studying each face. Most of them stared at the ground, too afraid to meet her eyes. A few glared at her with open defiance. Those were the ones she’d break first.

“Where is Dane Hale?” she asked. Her voice was calm, almost conversational.

Nobody answered.

Vera stopped in front of a man in his thirties with a scar across his left cheek. He was one of the defiant ones. She could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he held himself despite his bonds.

“You,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Marcus,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Marcus. A good name.”

Vera smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Marcus, I’m going to ask you once, and only once. Where is Dane Hale?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

Vera raised her hand. Her origin crystal pulsed with light.

“I can feel it. Your heart rate increased when I said his name. Your breathing changed. You know exactly who he is.”

“Knowing who he is doesn’t mean I know where he is,” Marcus said.

Vera nodded thoughtfully.

Then she channeled.

Energy flowed from her crystal, focused and controlled. It struck Marcus in the chest like a physical blow. He gasped, his back arching. Every muscle in his body went rigid. The pain was exquisite, carefully calibrated. Enough to hurt. Not enough to kill or permanently damage.

Vera had practiced her craft.

After ten seconds, she released him.

Marcus slumped forward, gasping for air.

Aha, ahh, ahHH!

“Where is Dane Hale?” Vera asked again.

“Go to hell,” Marcus wheezed.

Vera channeled again. This time for twenty seconds.

When she finished, Marcus was sobbing, tears streaming down his face.

But he didn’t talk.

She moved to the next person.

A woman in her fifties with gray hair and a weathered face.

“Where is Dane Hale?”

“I don’t know,” the woman said.

Her voice shook, but her eyes were steady.

Vera channeled.

AHHH!!!

The woman screamed.

The sound echoed through the forest, scattering birds from the trees.

Still, nobody talked.

Vera worked her way down the line.

Man, woman, man, woman. She was methodical. Professional. With each person, she increased the duration slightly. Increased the intensity. Testing their limits. Finding their breaking points.

Some of them passed out. Some of them begged.

But none of them talked.

After the fifteenth prisoner, Vera paused. She turned to one of her squad members, a younger witch named Senna.

“Bring me a knife,” she said.

Senna hesitated.

“Captain?”

“A knife. Now.”

Senna retrieved a blade from her pack and handed it over.

Vera tested the edge with her thumb, nodding in satisfaction.

She walked back to Marcus. He looked up at her through swollen eyes, still defiant despite everything.

“Last chance,” Vera said.

“Where is Dane Hale?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus said.

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re going to kill us anyway.”

“True,” Vera admitted.

“But there are many ways to die. Some are quicker than others.”

She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

“Please,” someone sobbed from further down the line.

“Please, we don’t know. He doesn’t tell us where he goes. That’s the whole point. We’re compartmentalized. If one cell gets caught, we can’t betray the others.”

Vera looked at the speaker. A young man, barely twenty, with tears streaming down his face.

“Then you’re all useless to me,” she said.

She drew the knife across Marcus’s throat in one smooth motion.

Blood sprayed across the clearing. Marcus made a wet gurgling sound and toppled forward. His body twitched for a few seconds, then went still.

Someone screamed. Several people started sobbing.

Vera cleaned her blade on Marcus’s shirt and moved to the next prisoner.

“Wait!” the young man shouted.

“Wait, please! I’ll tell you what I know!”

Vera paused.

“Speak.”

“There’s a safe house in the city, in the old quarter, near the docks. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s above a shop that sells antiques. Old Corrin’s place. That’s where Dane sometimes meets with cell leaders.”

Vera considered this. It was more than they’d had before. Corrin was a name that had come up in previous interrogations. A fence, an information broker, someone who helped the resistance move supplies and people.

“Thank you,” Vera said.

She raised the knife.

“But I told you!” the young man screamed.

“I know. And I appreciate it.”

She killed him quickly.

A mercy, compared to what she’d given Marcus.

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