Down in the Imperial dungeons, the air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of rust and mold. Water dripped from the beam in slow, measured intervals, the only sound marking the passage of time. The torches lining the corridor had long since burned low, leaving the place half-swallowed in shadow.
Su Gonggong sat slumped against the cold stone wall, his once-fine robes stained and torn. His hair, once slicked back neatly, now hung in messy strands over his face. His thin fingers clutched the iron bars loosely, his eyes dull and unfocused.
He had been down here for days. Maybe weeks. It was hard to tell. Food came irregularly, and sometimes not at all. The guards had stopped mocking him after the first few days, realizing there was no sport left in it.
Yet what hurt the most wasn't the humiliation. It was the confusion. He still didn't understand where everything had gone wrong.
