Extra To Protagonist

The door hissed open again, and this time, the footfalls weren't measured. They were heavier. Not rushed, just confident in the kind of way that didn't need a reason.

Merlin stayed seated.

He didn't lift his head.

He didn't need to.

The energy had already shifted.

The new arrival didn't wear a colonel's trim. This wasn't a ranking officer. No bars. No braid. But the posture said enough. A cleaner's walk. Not for dirt. For people.

He didn't sit. He stayed standing across from Merlin, arms loose at his sides like he hadn't decided whether to fold them or strike something.

When he spoke, the translation node activated. Slight crackle. No distortion.

"You didn't answer my superior," he said.

Merlin didn't respond.

"That's fine," the man added. "You'll answer me."

Merlin looked up slowly. Only once the silence demanded acknowledgment.

"I doubt that."

The man smiled. It wasn't friendly.

"You're not special here."

"I've noticed."

"And we're not soft."

"I've noticed that too."

The man's smile didn't fade. It flattened.

"You want to play clever? Be clever in pain. We have ways. Magic doesn't shield against them. We know your type."

Merlin didn't blink.

He didn't ask what type.

He didn't need to.

The man leaned forward, hands braced on the table. His knuckles were pale.

"We're not looking for cooperation. We're looking for submission. Say nothing? Fine. But understand this: we're not waiting for permission to break you."

Merlin exhaled, slow, even, barely audible.

And finally spoke again.

"Try."

It wasn't a challenge.

It wasn't a dare.

It was something colder.

Permission.

—

The silence after that word wasn't silence at all. It was anticipation. It was a room holding its breath, waiting to see who would bleed first.

Not a bluff. Not a threat.

A measured line drawn without hesitation.

The man didn't speak. Not right away. He stood there, eyes on Merlin, hands still pressed to the table as if bracing for the permission he'd just been granted to matter.

But he didn't move. Not yet. He was the kind who understood the weight of timing. Pain landed better when the subject believed in inevitability.

Merlin didn't shift. He watched the man's jaw flex. One twitch in the muscle. Barely visible. But enough.

'No training in the old powers. None of them know how this body breaks,' Merlin thought. 'They're used to war. Steel and gunpowder. That's their playbook. But not this. Not someone like me.'

Still, he knew what came next.

The man stepped back. Not in retreat, resetting the stage. He moved toward the wall and pressed something hidden. A panel slid open. From it, a case. From the case, gloves.

Leather. Reinforced. Not for grip. For damage.

Merlin's shoulders didn't tense. He didn't raise a shield. He didn't ask for mercy.

The gods didn't blink.

[The Smiling Witness remains attentive.]

[The Broken Herald hums.]

[The Judge with No Mouth does not intervene.]

[The Messenger writes to himself.]

The man returned. Pulled one glove tight. Then the other. Tested both hands like he was about to do surgery on a ghost.

Merlin lifted his eyes. Not defiant. Just watching.

"This isn't personal," the man said.

"I know," Merlin replied.

And then the blow came.

Hard.

Precise.

To the ribs, not the face. Not yet. They were professionals. Professionals started where it hurt long after the bruise faded.

Pain flashed white in his side, but he didn't flinch.

'He's testing the body first. Wants to see where the break lines are. Where the breath fails.'

Another strike, mid-sternum.

Shorter, sharper.

He didn't fall forward.

"Still want to be clever?" the man asked.

Merlin's voice came low, steady. "I haven't started."

The third hit came without warning, across the jaw. That one rang. Not because it hurt more, but because it was personal now. The man didn't like the quiet.

He didn't like the fact that Merlin still hadn't answered anything.

Merlin's head rolled with the impact. Blood touched his tongue. Copper and pressure. His vision tilted, but he righted it. Slowly.

The man stepped back, exhaling once like it cost him something.

Then he dropped into the chair across from him.

"You think pain will shield you?" he asked.

"No," Merlin answered. "I think you will."

The man's fingers twitched. He wasn't used to pushback. Not at this level. Not after the first round. His training told him this should've ended already. That the mage should've cracked.

But Merlin wasn't cracking.

He was learning.

'He favors the right side. Steps in before he swings. Telegraphs the hits. Too practiced. Not enough variation.'

The man leaned in. "You don't look like a soldier."

"I'm not."

"But you've killed."

"Yes."

"How many?"

Merlin's eyes locked onto his.

"Enough that the number isn't the point."

The man stared at him. Waiting. Listening.

And Merlin knew, he wasn't alone.

[The Devourer speaks to himself.]

[The First Lawkeeper writes to himself.]

[The Nameless Clockmaker adjusts the pacing.]

The air tightened.

But the man didn't know.

He only saw a captive too calm.

He stood again.

Walked behind Merlin this time. The pattern was forming, good interrogators broke angles, made the subject guess.

He didn't speak. Just waited.

Then reached forward, gripped the back of Merlin's collar, and pulled it down.

He was searching for scars.

Or marks.

Proof of magic. Of brands. Of allegiance.

Merlin let him look.

"Nothing," the man muttered.

"You expected sigils?" Merlin said quietly. "Brands of loyalty? That's not how we mark strength."

"Then how do you?"

Merlin turned his head, just enough to meet his gaze.

"By who still stands."

Another hit. Back of the shoulder this time. Too high to disable. Low enough to warn.

The man circled again.

Sat.

"You think they'll come for you?"

Merlin said nothing.

"You think you matter to them?"

Still silence.

"Your boy outside—he forgot your name. I've heard your conversation."

That earned the faintest flicker in Merlin's eye.

Not because it was true.

Because it was being used.

The man saw it. Thought he'd won something.

"You're not his friend anymore. You're not anyone's."

Merlin spoke softly. "That's not my burden."

"Then whose is it?"

He didn't answer.

Because the gods already had.

[The Crownless Mother stirs.]

[The Messenger writes to no one in particular: "He mourns in delay."]

[The Smiling Witness whispers: "This is the shape of truth."]

Merlin exhaled.

The man leaned in.

"You know what this room's for?"

Merlin didn't respond.

"It's not for answers," the man said. "It's for removing questions."

He stood again.

Walked once more to the case.

Opened a lower compartment.

This time, not gloves.

A small needle.

Clear.

The kind that didn't ask permission before entering skin.

"This will burn."

Merlin's voice was low. "I've burned before."

The needle hit.

He didn't scream.

The pain was immediate. Not fire. Not shock. Something worse.

Like memory unspooling.

Like thought pulled apart from the inside.

He stayed upright.

The man watched. Waiting for him to beg.

But Merlin didn't give him that.

He gave him silence.

And after a long, thin pause—

He gave him words.

"You're not ready for me."

The man stilled.

Then he laughed once.

Low. Bitter.

"You'll break," he said.

Merlin nodded once.

"Eventually," he said.

"But not here."

—

Elara didn't speak. Not at first. She just stared at the door Merlin had disappeared through, jaw clenched tight enough to lock her molars.

The room was quiet. Not in the peaceful way. In the way that made you count breaths, because anything louder felt like a mistake.

Mae sat against the far wall, knees tucked in, her fingertips twitching against her thigh like they were still waiting for a sword that wasn't there.

Seraphina didn't sit. She leaned against the opposite side, arms folded, eyes locked on the wall. Watching it. Measuring it. Like she expected it to move first.

Dion had gone quiet. Not sulking. Thinking. Or trying to.

Elara stepped back from the door.

Merlin had been gone too long.

She didn't ask the time. No one knew it. Not here. This place didn't give them clocks, just walls and silence and enough pressure to make minutes feel like hours.

He should've been back.

She shifted. Not pacing. Just rebalancing weight. Too much stillness made her thoughts spiral.

'He's not like the rest of us. That's what no one says. That's what everyone knows.'

Not just power. Not just the way he moved or how his eyes always scanned first, spoke second. It was how he carried information. Like it wasn't a weapon. Like it was responsibility.

And now he was gone.

Not far. But far enough that the silence made her nervous.

Mae finally broke it. "They're not hurting him, are they?"

Elara didn't answer. Neither did Seraphina. Dion looked away.

Because the answer wasn't no.

The guards had changed shifts once already. That was the only way they were tracking time now, by the rhythm of boots outside the door.

Mae pressed her hand against the floor. "It's been hours."

"Maybe," Elara said.

"I don't like this," Mae muttered.

"No one does," Seraphina said. Her voice was even. Flat. But her knuckles were pale.

Elara didn't move from her place by the door. But her eyes narrowed. Something in her chest had begun to coil, slow, steady, like a storm waiting for its own permission.

'I don't need to hear screams to know something's wrong.'

Then—

Footsteps. Slower this time. Not marching.

Keys scraped metal. The door didn't open. Not yet.

Mae straightened up. Dion moved to the side. Seraphina didn't shift. Elara's hand curled into a fist before she noticed.

But it wasn't Merlin.

Not yet.

The lock reengaged.

The silence came back.

And Elara knew.

Something had gone wrong.

Not with him.

With them.

Because when Merlin came back—

He wouldn't be the same.

And whatever the guards wanted—

They'd already started taking it.