The moment the final gate groaned shut behind them, silence consumed the party.
No wind. No light. No sound but the quiet, tense exhale of dozens of living bodies.
The walls of the dungeon were damp and ancient, carved with what appeared to be runes and rough-hewn symbols that glistened faintly with residual moisture. Darkness swallowed the air itself, dense and unrelenting.
A voice pierced the stillness.
"Light the torches," came Christiana WarEmbrace's calm, unwavering command.
Her royal guards and guards from the other families moved with practiced discipline. With flint and steel, a line of torches blazed to life, one after the other, illuminating their surroundings in a golden glow.
The shadows recoiled, but not completely. The darkness here clung to surfaces like moss, unwilling to flee.
