The dungeons of Kabir's fortress were carved deep into the bedrock beneath the palace, a labyrinth of stone and iron that had witnessed countless confessions over the years. The air down here was thick with damp and decay, smelling of rusted metal, old blood, and the particular sourness of fear that no amount of torch smoke could mask. It was a place designed to break men, to strip away their pride and their secrets layer by layer until nothing remained but the raw, quivering truth.

Kabir stood in the center of the largest cell, his boots planted wide on the cold stone floor, his arms crossed over his chest. He had removed his tunic, working now only in his leather trousers and boots, his bare torso gleaming with sweat despite the chill of the underground. Blood spattered across his chest in dark, drying streaks, mapping out the work he had already done this night.