The prison wing felt less like a place of punishment and more like a hollowed-out lung—every breath echoing, every footstep carrying weight. The frost-burned stone still held that lingering cold from the thawing chambers, a reminder that the captives had been carved out of ice only hours ago. Now, only one remained alive. One, and the strange bargain that hovered between him and Korvath's highest command.
Iroko Ryusei stood before the reinforced cell, cloak unmoving despite the draft. Jose sat inside—thin, hollow-cheeked, still bearing the faint shimmer of thawed frost on his hair. He wasn't trembling. He was waiting.
Iroko regarded him with the kind of stillness that made men confess without prompting.
"Jose. You have something we need. We have something you need. Let us establish the value of your truth." He stepped closer, voice even. "Start with the Engine's weakness. Give me one true, verifiable piece of information. In return, I will grant you one reasonable demand that shows my good faith. Then we will talk about the next question, and the next price."
Jose licked his lips—dry, cracked. Hunger radiated off him like heat from a forge.
"My demands," he murmured, "ain't complicated. Food. Clothes. A clean room. That's all."
He glanced toward the corpse of his fellow mercenary, already bagged and hauled aside. "I ain't asking to walk free. I'm not stupid. But I won't talk while freezing or starving."
Mikage Reiken stepped from the wall, shadows peeling off her as if trying to cling. Arms folded. Eyes narrow.
"Supreme Commander Iroko," she said quietly, "you may doubt him. You may doubt me. But I trust my judgment. Give him what he needs. He will give what we need."
Her gaze settled on Jose like a blade laid flat on a throat. "He is loyal to none. Only to himself. He will side with whoever benefits him the most."
Jose offered her a faint, crooked smile. "He gets it."
Iroko didn't blink. "Very well."
He signaled the guards. "Transfer him. Clean room. Fresh clothes. Warm food."
The change was swift. Efficient. No ceremony.
Within the hour Jose was moved to a refurbished chamber—hardly luxurious, but warmer, cleaner, and no longer stinking of frozen blood and thawed fear. He sat at a small wooden table as a steaming meal was placed before him. And then he devoured it with the kind of hunger that made even the guards avert their eyes. Every swallow was almost reverent. Between bites he muttered compliments, not as flattery but as instinct.
"This is good. Damn good. Whoever cooked this—keep 'em alive. Please."
Only after plates were cleaned to the last grain did he lean back, exhaling as though life had finally returned to his bones.
He stripped off the Valerian uniform without shame, throwing the frost-stiffened cloth aside. His body was scarred but not war-scarred—this was a man who worked with metal, gears, devices. Hands steady. Fingertips etched with burns and tiny cuts. A mechanic, not a soldier.
The new clothes—simple dark trousers, a warm shirt, a thick vest—fit him loosely. He tugged the fabric, satisfied, then moved to the couch they'd placed against the far wall.
He sank into it with a sigh. "Much better. Now we can talk."
Iroko remained standing, arms clasped behind him. Mikage stood to his right, expression unreadable.
Jose stretched his legs out. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not Valerian. Not even close."
He tapped the side of his head. "Accent give it away? I only work for my own good. Always have. Valeria just paid better than most. Simple math."
Iroko's voice sharpened. "Who hired you?"
Jose smirked. "Commander Cæsardionus Cadarturion."
His eyes rolled, as if the name tasted bad. "A fat, lazy, noisy brat of a man. Always shouting. Always demanding. Never doing a damn thing himself. But he pays. Or… he paid."
Mikage's fingers twitched, the faintest sign of amusement—or disdain. "And your role?"
"Mechanical specialist." Jose lifted his hands, palms outward. "Assigned to Frostholm for maintenance of the device Valeria calls 'Winter's Kiss.' Not a flattering name, by the way. Makes it sound romantic."
A snort. "Trust me—it ain't."
He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, eyes sharpening.
"You want to know the weakness? The truth? The layers? I can tell you everything. But we do it step by step. Question by question. Payment by payment."
He spread his arms as though welcoming them into his small, newly cleaned kingdom.
"I'm here. Fed. Warm. Alive. Ready to answer the next questions."
And for the first time since he thawed, a glimmer of something like confidence—dangerous, useful—lit Jose's eyes.
The deal had begun.