That castle was impressive. Whoever built it—definitely using magic—was someone remarkable. Worthy of respect, criminal or not.
William moved through the space carefully, eyes sharp. He wasn't just hunting for information about his class and the demonic artifact—he was watching for danger.
Danger never came. No traps triggered as he explored.
But he did find makeshift beds on the floor. Sleeping sacks made from animal hide, dead lanterns, pots with dinner residue.
"People are living here," he thought.
Strange.
At first, William figured this was a secret base for whoever was spying on the city. But the deeper he went—through corridors, down stairways—the more it felt like a dungeon.
Walls covered in drawings and writings in a language no one there would recognize.
But William did.
That language had been burned into his mind long ago. The tongue of the demon race.
William stopped beside the wall, viewing it through his puppet's eyes.
