Oryn didn't speak. He didn't have to.
He stepped into the room, stepping over the ruin of the doorframe, and jerked the heavy chain wrapped around his fist.
Something—someone—dragged across the floor behind him.
A man slid into the light. He was bound, gagged with duct tape, and weeping. He wasn't bloody, but he was shaking so violently his teeth chattered audibly against the gag.
Lysander staggered back, his hip hitting the metal table. The arrogance that had coated him seconds ago evaporated, leaving behind the raw, ugly panic of a cornered animal.
"Silas," Lysander whispered.
Oryn yanked the man to his knees. He ripped the tape off the man’s mouth.
"Tell them," Oryn signed, his face a mask of stone splattered with crimson.
"I didn't want to!" the man—Silas, the mechanic—sobbed,
