After this morning's disaster it feels good to be back at work. Teaching has always been her passion, her calling, not politics, courtly intrigues and wars. Forming plain, even ugly, misshapen or totally unremarkable young girls into brilliant and beautiful women, meticulously and with endless patience cutting precious, sparkling diamonds from dull dobs - Tissaia cannot think of a more rewarding job. Although, nowadays, many of her girls are nothing even remotely like rough diamonds. If she is honest with herself, several of her students show now promise at all, simple pebbles that will not amount to anything worth keeping, not even suitable as conduits of magic. The continent seems to fall further and deeper into decline with every passing decade as power-hungry humans are not only turning wide stretches of it into a war-torn wasteland, but also in respect to magic. There is less and less chaos in every new generation. Fortunately, there is the occasional exception, like Malina who managed to magically lift her stone on her second attempt and without shrivelling her hand or anything else beside the doomed daisies. Perhaps they should not have crippled mages of their ability to procreate? Well, too late to change it now. The age of mortal men seems to have begun with elves and magic slowly but inevitably disappearing from this sphere.

Tissaia sighs. How has she become so disenchanted with the world? Or is it just the aftereffect of this morning's failure? Her grief for the fallen sorceresses and sorcerers? Her worry for Yennefer? Perhaps she is just tired after this sheer endless day? A glass of wine or two in the solitude of her chambers might lighten her mood. And then a good night's sleep. Originally she intended to pay a visit to the dungeons, check on the prisoner, however, she cannot muster the energy. Not today. She will do it in the morning. He will still be there.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The prisoner is still there come morning. Where else would he be? At least physically he is. Through the bars of the cell door Tissaia can see his lean form on the cot in the corner. He is lying motionless on his side, only the slight in and out movement of his chest indicating that he is alive. Occasionally he is shivering from the cold, too. She should have told the servants not only where to deposit the prisoner this time, but also to cover him with the blanket. That is the problem with servants, they do everything you order them to do, but nothing else, although common sense ought to have told them not to drop the senseless man on top of the bedcover. Well, judging from what she can see underneath his trembling body, the blanket is so threadbare, it would not have made much of a difference anyway.

Tissaia opens the grille door with a loud creak. The Nilfgaardian does not stir. Is he still unconscious? Or deeply asleep? The sorceress steps inside the cell. No, his eyes are open. Wide open and staring blankly at the opposite wall. He hardly blinks. Tissaia observes him for a long moment. It is rather unsettling. Although physically present, it appears like mentally he is not. She calls the prisoner's name to check, first softly, then more loudly, but there is no reaction, none whatsoever. Neither does he flinch or move in any way when she claps her hands right in front of his face. The man does not even react to her pinching his blood-smeared cheek. This does not look good. Seems like her threat from the first day of interrogation has come true, like he is indeed left cold and helpless, trapped inside the eternal darkness of his own mind. What do the healers call such a state of almost complete immobility and lack of response to external stimuli? Catatonia? Caused by the violent seizure? Or by her trying to break the magical barrier in his brain? Well, it does not make much of a difference whether she has directly or indirectly induced this stupor, her magic has provoked it. A rather disconcerting realisation. However, she must not forget that the Nilfgaardian has brought it upon himself. He alone is to blame for his pitiful state. He should have taken the deal. Then he would not lie here like this, shivering and shaking and mindlessly staring at the stone wall. Darn, why is she not like Philippa Eilhart who would simply shrug this off as another casualty of war, or even find joy in the act of just revenge. Vilgefortz would not bat an eye, either. How Tissaia wishes the young sorcerer were here, he would not only ease her conscience but easily take her mind off things, too. With his words and his - other talents. One more day until his return. Well, in the meantime she should perhaps get a healer down here to see to that the Nilfgaardian stays alive and will recover from her interrogation methods enough to stand on his feet when he has to face his execution. And after her visit to the infirmary, she will conveniently forget about the enemy commander in the dungeons. As he has not proven fruitful at all. She will have to find some other means to locate Yennefer. There must be something. Somewhere in her many books or in the extensive Aretuza library. She could ask Hen Gedymdeith, too. He is the oldest sorcerer alive, even older than she herself, and wise. He might know about some ancient, elven magic that could help. Why has this idea not occurred to her sooner? Right, she was so single-mindedly focused on the prisoner that she totally neglected to sound out other possibilities. Well, she will immediately rectify this omission. After a quick detour to the infirmary.

With renewed optimism, Tissaia turns on her heels and leaves the prison cell, magically locking the door after herself. Not really necessary considering the sorry state of its inmate, but she is an extremely orderly person, and cell doors per se have to be safely locked, no matter what. After the brief visit of the sick ward to inform the healer on duty about the catatonic Nilfgaardian soldier, she returns to her chambers and immediately writes to the famous old sorcerer for advice. Then she makes her way to the library. Between the hundreds upon hundreds of old tomes, while skimming through one after the other, the man in the dungeons soon slips from her mind and is thoroughly forgotten.