The cell smelled of rank mildew and rotten hay. Phyr lay upon a pile of aging straw, hands manacled to a running chain that lined the wall. If he angled his back just right, he could almost sit comfortably. The foul stench of the dungeon matched the thoughts flitting through his mind. He could think of only one person capable of framing him for treason.

After a time the cell's door opened with a great groaning of wood, and in walked Major Steeleye. The broad-shouldered elf looked particularly monstrous in the lantern light spilling from the hallway, and his face could not contain a smarmy grin that cast shadows around the corners of his eyes. The major folded his arms in front of his chest and scuffed the dirty floor with a polished boot.

“Well, you certainly do move around a lot, Sa'resh. From the lieutenants' barracks to the officers' barracks, to a small house in a fine community, to this shithole, all in less than two years. Impressive, captain. Although I don't suppose I can call you that anymore, can I?”

His chuckle haunted the hairline cracks in the room's concrete walls. Phyr shifted slightly, the manacles chafing at his wrists, but did not reply.

“I won't pretend I didn't see this coming. A young gunsmith such as you, promoted outside his station due to technological brilliance. Everyone will understand why you felt it necessary to steal the plans for our most advanced weaponry and ship them off to Raiaera... a new wife, habituated to a pampered life. You needed the extra coin, you only wanted a happy family. It will all go better for you if you just confess.”

Phyr looked up at Steeleye and cleared his throat. He leaned his head back and spat, the ball of saliva and phlegm just barely reaching far enough to land on the major's boot.

“Or don't,” Steeleye said with a mirthless chuckle, wiping his foot on a pile of hay, “it will be more entertaining for me if you contest the charges. Alerar hasn't much tolerance for traitors... and you're well on your way to being branded a terrorist. I shouldn't be surprised to see your trial foregone for a military tribunal, and you shipped off to a maximum-security facility somewhere like the northern reaches of Salvar. Where everyone will be too cold to listen to your treacherous scheming.”

The prisoner's lips moved in frantic, twitching patterns. Breath rushed in and out of his mouth, forming no more sound than the indistinct whistle of its passage.

“What's that, Sa'resh?” Steeleye taunted, looming closer, “you want me to swear to take good care of Annelle? Of course my old friend... of course. Your marriage will be annulled, I suspect, since according to rumor, it was never consummated...”

A vein pulsated in Phyr's temple, spasming furiously beneath his blue skin. He strained against the chains in vain, struggling to push a single sentence past his lips.

“One day... I will have... my revenge.”