Borion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief moment before composing himself. "Ah, yes. Another shining example of our kingdom's sophisticated approach to justice—public beatings and unsanctioned interrogations. Truly, we are the pinnacle of civilization." Rolling his shoulders, he flexed his fingers as he prepared to cast. The air around him thrummed with quiet power, arcane energy coiling at his fingertips like unseen threads waiting to be woven. "Right then, Brak," he said, his voice slipping into a smooth, hypnotic cadence, "let's set the record straight, shall we?" With a slow, deliberate gesture, Borion reached into the flow of magic, shaping the spell with the precision of a sculptor carving away unwanted imperfections. The energy curled around Brak like a mist, seeping into the cracks of his mind, smoothing over jagged memories, replacing them with something far more palatable. The pain, the branding iron—those memories resisted at first, but Borion's magic was patient, insistent. He plucked them free, like pulling errant threads from a tapestry, and wove a new tale in their place. Borion murmured, his words laced with arcane suggestion, "You weren't tied up in the barracks, enduring something that never should have happened. No, you were in the thick of the prison break, holding the line when others faltered. You fought, pushing back the chaos, and in the struggle, you were slammed against the wall—knocking loose a torch that seared your skin as you pushed yourself back into the fight." The spell pulsed as it took hold, Brak's memories shifting, twisting, aligning with the tale Borion spun. His glazed eyes flickered with new recollections—smoke, the clash of bodies, the sting of the burn against his skin. He had fought. He had stopped others from escaping. He had redeemed himself. Borion exhaled, shaking off the lingering sensation of spellwork as he observed his handiwork. "There. You're no longer a man marred by disgrace, but one who earned his scars in the service of order. A fine improvement, if I do say so myself." Borion dusted off his hands, exhaling slowly. "Now, let's go make this right. This was a mistake—one that never should have happened. The least we can do is offer Brak the dignity he was denied and ensure this doesn't happen again." --- *Internally, within Brak's altered memories, the scene unfolded differently:* Brak's mind was fire and fury, raw and blistering, memories etched in agony. It had started with *Tartuccio*. The rage, the hatred, the accusations flying like poisoned darts. "You led them here!" *Tartuccio's* voice had been a hiss of accusation, punctuated by the chaos of the escaping prisoners. "This is all your fault!" Brak gasped, fear mixing with the confusion as *Tartuccio* grabbed him, shoving him toward the rioting prisoners. "They were worth a hundred of your kind!" Then came the struggle. "Brak, the sooner you answer, the faster we can get this resolved." *No. That wasn't right. That was Maximus's voice, but it couldn't be...* *Tartuccio* turned, seething. "You think this rat deserves to walk free?" *"He will talk. He knows what we are capable of. No need for further violence."* The argument between them had been a storm, heavy and suffocating. *Tartuccio* wanted blood. Maximus wanted control. *But that wasn't right...* "You don't understand a damn thing, *gnome*," *Brinnard* had snarled. *No... that was wrong too...* *"Your excused, General. I will handle it from here."* *Brinnard* had left, his boots slamming against the ground with every step. *But he wasn't there... It was Tartuccio...* And then, the real nightmare began. *"Congratulations, Brak," Tartuccio had said, his voice cold and mocking. "You get to be the first to feel the consequences of your actions."* Brak had screamed. He had fought. The pain was real. The fire was real. The *accident*, the searing flesh, the overwhelming agony that sent his body into shock. And then— A second presence. A whisper threading through the unbearable noise of pain. A voice slipping between the cracks of his breaking mind. *"Ah, yes. Another shining example of our kingdom's sophisticated approach to justice—public beatings and unsanctioned interrogations. Truly, we are the pinnacle of civilization."* Brak barely heard him, barely understood Borion's words. The elf's voice was a distant ripple against the roaring tide of his torment. Then the arcane energy wrapped around him. It was cold, seeping into the deepest recesses of his thoughts, weaving between memories, unraveling what was there and replacing it with something else. Borion's voice became a steady rhythm, a hypnotic pull against the pain. "Right then, Brak," he murmured, fingers tracing unseen threads in the air. "Let's set the record straight, shall we?" Brak's body trembled. His mind fought back—but Borion's magic was patient. It did not erase. It did not destroy. It reshaped. The memory of the chair, the ropes, the branding iron pressed into his face? Plucked away. The sound of his own screams, the scent of his own burning flesh? Dissolved. In its place, something better. Something cleaner. Borion's voice whispered in his thoughts, guiding the change. *"You weren't tied up in the barracks, enduring something that never should have happened."* No. That wasn't right. Brak twitched. His breath slowed. *"You were in the thick of the prison break, holding the line when others faltered."* Yes. Yes. Brak's eyes fluttered as the images changed, shifting, realigning themselves to Borion's truth. The chaos. The smoke. The flickering torchlight casting wild shadows against the walls. He had been fighting, not bound. He had been standing his ground, not begging for mercy. *"You fought, pushing back the chaos, and in the struggle, you were slammed against the wall—knocking loose a torch that seared your skin as you pushed yourself back into the fight."* His mind bent, twisted, accepted. Yes. That was how it happened. The riot had been madness, bodies clashing, voices screaming. He had been thrown back against the brazier—his own momentum, his own struggle against the prisoners had caused it. The pain was the same. The fire was the same. But the reason had changed. It hadn't been Maximus. It hadn't been Gerrek holding him down, Maximus pressing the burning metal into his skin with unwavering cruelty. No. Brak had earned his scars. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed into the weight of the spell. Borion exhaled, shaking off the lingering sensation of spellwork, observing his handiwork with practiced ease. *"There. You're no longer a man marred by disgrace, but one who earned his scars in the service of order."* Borion dusted off his hands. *"A fine improvement, if I do say so myself."* The memory had settled, cemented itself into place. Brak had fought. Brak had tried to hold the line. The burns had been an accident. The truth was gone. But the hatred remained. And now, it had a new target. Brak exhaled, blinking slowly as the arcane haze lifted. A single name spilled from his lips. "*Tartuccio*." The true enemy. The one who had orchestrated this entire thing. Borion smiled. "Good boy."