Thoren
The low hum of fluorescent lights accompanied Kael and me as we walked down the corridor of the secure detention facility. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang that seemed to permeate every place designed to hold those who had lost their freedom.
Glass-paneled observation windows lined one side of the hallway, each revealing identical holding rooms—sterile, controlled, and devoid of comfort. Here, everything was efficient, monitored, and meticulously regulated.
“Remind me why we’re entertaining this,” Kael muttered beside me, his voice low but edged with skepticism.
“Because men like Hopkins don’t request an audience unless they believe they have something valuable to offer,” I replied. “And right now, we can’t afford to ignore any p
