The Scars of Memory

Your wrists ache where the iron has bitten. The table's grain is dark with stains that might be wine or might not. The hooded figure does not move—no breath, no shift of fabric—yet you feel watched, measured, catalogued. When they speak, the voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, dry as parchment scraping stone.

"Do you understand why you are here?" they ask again, patient, eternal. Your tongue finds a split lip, copper-sweet. Somewhere beyond the door, a dwarf screams, then stops. You do not answer. The figure's hood tilts, almost curious. "No matter. We have time. We have always had time." Their gloved hand slides a sheaf of papers across the wood—names, dates, your handwriting, your crimes, your choices. "Begin with the fire tower. The sphere. Tell me what you remember, or I will tell you what you have forgotten."