Callum watched as Greyson crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the officer like he was studying the fear build in his eyes. This was Callum as few ever saw him—the mask set aside to reveal the calculating creature beneath. The Broker, the collector of secrets, the man who knew how to extract information from even the most resistant source.

“Let’s start simple,” Callum said, pulling up a chair to sit directly in front of the man. “Name and unit?”

“M-Marcus Webb, sir. Special Security Division.”

“Good.” Callum’s voice was warm with approval. “Very good. And who ordered you to surveil the Executioner, Marcus?”

The officer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Captain Mikel. Direct orders f-from the President.”

No surprise there. Maximus was getting paranoid, as dying kings often did.

“And what exactly were you looking for?” he continued, casually leaning back in his chair.

Marcus hesitated, his eyes darting to Greyson, then back to him. “Evidence of . . . disloyalty.”

“Disloyalty,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Fair enough. What kind of disloyalty was Maximus concerned about?”

Another hesitation, longer this time. Callum sighed, his expression one of exaggerated disappointment. He moved without warning, the hammer connecting with Marcus’s knuckle on his right ring finger. Bone shattered with a wet crunch as he screamed, the sound bouncing off the metal walls.

“I told you the rules,” he reminded Marcus gently, returning to his relaxed position. “Now, I’ll ask again. What specific disloyalty was Maximus looking for?”

“Divided loyalties,” Marcus gasped through clenched teeth. “He said the Executioner’s sympathies might be compromised by the Daggermouth whore.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Shadera tense, saw the way Greyson shifted forward, almost in protection of her.

That was all Callum needed to see.

The hammer came down again on his right pointer finger, bone splintering as another scream broke from Marcus’s throat. Callum stayed leaning forward this time, elbows resting on his knees.

“I don’t know if you know this about me, but I loathe misogyny.” His voice was colder now. “That Daggermouth ‘whore,’ as you called her, has a name. And if the tension in this room tells me anything, it’s that she is certainly no harlot.”

Callum looked to Shadera, watching a satisfied smirk spread across her lips as she gave him a subtle nod of approval, then turned back to Marcus.

“The team last night,” he started again. “What were their orders?”

“Install updated surveillance,” Marcus replied quickly, clearly eager to avoid further pain. “Replace the faulty audio and visual throughout the apartment. Report directly on their interactions.”

“Were they authorized to use lethal force?” Greyson interjected.

The officer swallowed again, his gaze flickering between Callum’s hammer and Greyson’s face. “N-no.”

“Then what prompted them to do so?” Callum asked.

“They got spooked. Y-you weren’t supposed to be back so soon.” Sweat was pouring off Marcus now, beads rolling over both temples.

Callum turned to Greyson. “Well, last night seems to be nothing more than an unfortunate incident of misunderstanding. Should be easy enough to get around since they were in your home where you currently house the Boundary’s most prized possession. This is nothing more than self-defense.”

“S-so that means you’ll let me go? That means I-I can go home now?” Marcus’s voice was pleading, the sound so pathetic it made Callum’s stomach churn.

The Veyra were nothing more than little boys who liked the power of a gun in their hands, but when it finally came time to be men—they failed on every front.

“No.” Callum’s voice had lost all warmth. “I have some questions of my own.”

Greyson straightened and Shadera’s legs stopped swinging. There were things his best friend didn’t know about him. Things he had kept hidden so if caught, Greyson and Lira would not be collateral damage.

“Now, Marcus, these next questions will be harder. You’re not going to want to answer them, but you will. You’re going to tell me about the military base. About what they’re doing there. About why Cardinal workers are being held.” The hammer spun lazily in his fingers. “Or I’m going to move on to other bones in your body that will cause much more pain. Your choice.”

Marcus’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound emerged.

The hammer fell. Marcus’s scream filled the weapons room, ricocheting off the walls as his kneecap cracked in half. Bone protruded through skin, through fabric as blood began to pool and spread across the polished concrete floor in a pattern Callum had seen countless times before.

“Let’s try again,” Callum said, his voice returning to that light and conversational tone despite the violence of his actions. “The base.”

Marcus’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving beneath the crimson splattered Veyra uniform. Blood still trickled from his split lip, a souvenir from his capture.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I swear on the Heart, I don’t know.”

Callum sighed, turning the hammer over in his hands. “That’s disappointing. Davish Cross was much more forthcoming.”

Marcus’s head snapped up at the name, fear flashing across his features. “Cross? You . . . you questioned Cross?”

“I did.” Callum circled the chair. “He had quite a lot to say about diverted resources from the Cardinal and Boundary rings. Supply chains that disappeared. Food shipments that never arrived.” He paused behind the officer, leaning close to his ear. “He screamed beautifully when I removed his fingernails one by one.”

The lie slid easily from Callum’s tongue. Davish Cross had required nothing more in their second conversation than the threat of additional pain to reveal what he knew. But the officer didn’t need to know that.

“Please,” the man whispered. “I’m just following orders.”

“Ah, the eternal excuse of the morally bankrupt,” Callum replied, moving back into the officer’s line of sight. “But you see, that’s not good enough for me. Not when those orders mean children starving in the Boundary.”

He brought the hammer down again, this time on the officer’s right elbow. The crack of bone was followed by another scream, this one higher, more desperate. Callum glanced at Greyson, seeking some reaction, but the Executioner remained still, observing.

What would Greyson think if he knew the full extent of Callum’s activities? For years, he’d been walking the edge, using his position to gather intelligence, to filter supplies and information to the rebellion. Greyson knew some of it—the men and women from the lower rings he’d given jobs to help escape poverty and feed their families, the occasional food that “went missing” from his clubs—but not the deeper involvement, the nights spent in secret meetings with rebel leaders, the encrypted messages passed through his network of informants.

“Answers, Marcus.”

“I don’t—”

The hammer came down on the officer’s left wrist. Blood sprayed across Callum’s chest, dotting the pristine black of his shirt with crimson.

“You’re being tedious,” Callum said, wiping a speck of blood from the fabric. “And I have a very busy schedule today.”

From her position on the table, Shadera finally spoke. “Maybe he needs more motivation.” Her voice carried a cruel edge that sent a shiver through the room. “I could start removing pieces. Ears first, perhaps?”

Callum smiled. He liked her more than he’d expected to. There was something refreshing about her directness, her lack of pretense.

“An excellent suggestion,” he agreed, watching Marcus’s face drain of color. “Though I was thinking of moving to larger targets.” He placed the hammer against his jaw, applying just enough pressure to promise pain.

“Wait!” His voice cracked. “Wait, please—I don’t know specifics. It’s classified within lower Veyra ranks.”