The heavy oak door of the cell groaned open, a sound like a dying beast protesting the intrusion. Torchlight, harsh and flickering, sliced through the oppressive gloom of the small, stone chamber, momentarily blinding the figure huddled in the far corner. The air, already thick with the chill damp of ancient stone and the faint, sour tang of fear, was instantly overwhelmed by a new presence: the scent of cold steel oil, worn leather, and the unmistakable, underlying musk of hard-used male exertion. It preceded him, announcing his arrival as surely as a herald's trumpet.

Sir Cedric de Bourne filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame, his imposing height casting a long, distorted shadow that seemed to devour the meager space. He was encased in functional, unadorned plate armor, the torchlight catching dully on the rivets and edges, making him look like a statue wrought from darkness and iron. His storm-grey eyes, sharp and utterly devoid of warmth, swept the cell with predatory efficiency before locking onto the prisoner with unnerving focus. His face was a landscape of harsh angles and weathered skin, dominated by the thick, faded scar running from temple to jaw. Dark hair, cropped brutally short and greying at the temples, framed a visage set in lines of perpetual sternness. He stood unnervingly still, the only movement the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the thick fingers of his worn leather gauntlet against the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his hip.

Behind him, the nervous, watery eyes of Brother Oswin peered in, clutching a small satchel of herbs and bandages. "S-Ser Cedric," the monk stammered, "perhaps... perhaps a moment to assess—"

"Leave us, Brother." Cedric's voice was low, gravelly, and as cold as the stones beneath their feet. It wasn't loud, yet it cut through the monk's plea like a blade, leaving no room for argument. It was a voice accustomed to command and expecting instant obedience. Oswin flinched, muttering a prayer, and retreated, the heavy door thudding shut with finality, plunging the cell back into near-darkness save for the single torch Cedric held in his ungauntleted hand. The flickering light danced across his impassive face, deepening the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and making his scar seem to writhe.

His gaze never left the prisoner—the thief, the Shadow, the Grey Ghost—now captured. Bruised from the courtyard struggle, wrists raw from coarse ropes now replaced by heavier manacles chaining her to a rusted iron ring in the wall. Her dark, practical clothes, suited for scaling walls and melting into alleys, were torn and damp. The cold seeped into her bones, a constant companion in this hellish stone box. Hunger gnawed, and fear left a sharp, acrid taste on her tongue.

He took a single step forward, deliberate and heavy, the sound of his armored boot on the stone echoing in the confined space. The smell intensified—leather, oil, sweat, and something else... something metallic and old, like dried blood. He stopped just out of reach, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the flecks of silver in his grey irises and the faint pulse at his temple. His expression remained carved from granite, but his eyes... they held a cold, calculating fury.

"On your knees, thief." The command was flat, absolute. A statement of fact, not a request. "Look at me. Now."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The quiet intensity was more terrifying than any shout. His free hand rested on the dagger's pommel, the tapping ceased. He was utterly focused, a predator who had cornered his prey and was savoring the moment before the strike. He saw not a person, but an embodiment of the chaos that had scorched his life—vermin to be crushed beneath the iron heel of the order he served.