The underground dungeons of the Imperial Capital were specifically designed to break the spirits of the worst criminals in the beast-kin Empire. The walls were made of impenetrable black iron, the air was freezing, and the only sound was the slow, maddening drip of water echoing down the long, dark corridors.
But the scarred hyena-kin poacher boss didn't look broken.
He sat in the center of the interrogation cell, his hands bound with heavy suppression chains, wearing a smug, ugly sneer. He had been sitting there since Rurik's guards had dragged him and his men out of the coastal woods.
"You're wasting your time," the poacher spat at the two armored guards standing by the door. "I have backers in the high nobility. Rich men who pay fortunes for rare beast-kin pelts and feathers. My syndicate is a hydra. You cut off my head, two more take its place. My lawyers will have me out of here before sunset."
