The dungeon breathed like a living thing.
Moisture ran down its black stone ribs; the air tasted of rust and old blood. Every chain groaned softly with the drip of condensation. A single torch guttered in its sconce, casting long, shivering shadows that crawled over Yara's bare feet.
She hung from the ceiling, her wrists bound high, one shoulder swollen from bearing her weight too long.
The cuffs had rubbed her raw. Her body was a map of bruises — each one another tally of his patience running thin.
How many days had passed since then? Was Damien still here?
She didn't know.
Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls.
Sometimes she spoke without realizing — Val's name, the hatchlings', a prayer that never reached the gods.
Then came the sound she dreaded: slow, dragging boots on the spiral stairs.
The wards in the walls thrummed, faintly reacting to his presence. The torchlight stuttered, as though bracing itself.
