Chapter 8 · Who the hell are you?

He swept the desk, grabbing a leather-bound folder and a few loose sheets of vellum. As he turned to leave, the clerk turned back. The man's jaw dropped, his glass of water shattering on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" the clerk screamed. "Guards! Guards!"

Cain didn't panic. He stepped forward, his hand clamping over the man's mouth. He pushed him back against the desk, the edge of the wood digging into the clerk's kidneys.

"Shut up," Cain hissed. "Or I'll make sure you never speak again."

The clerk's eyes were wide with terror, his muffled whimpers vibrating against Cain's palm. Cain could feel the man's marrow—a weak, pale blue. Not worth the effort to eat, but enough to keep him compliant.

"You're the one," the clerk managed to mumble through Cain's fingers. "The outcast. The one they said was dead."

"I am dead," Cain replied, his voice cold. "Now tell me where the General's private logs are kept, or I'll start pulling teeth."

"In the vault! Third level!" the man sobbed. "Please, just let me go!"

Cain shoved him aside, not bothering to check if he was still breathing.