"The factory," the old man whispered, his voice barely audible as he drifted near the precipice of unconsciousness.
Isiah's dark eyes narrowed, his impatience growing with every passing second. He could sense the deep, paralyzing fear radiating from the official, but he had no tolerance for weakness. He had come too far through the spatial rift to be delayed by anyone, least of all a broken man whimpering on the floor.
"Where exactly?" Isiah demanded, his voice hard, heavy, and commanding. "I do not tolerate delays."
The man attempted to formulate coherent words, but the searing aftermath of the dark curse choking his neck was too severe. He could only manage to repeat the same word over and over in a desperate croak, hoping Isiah would understand its significance.
