The guards' keys clinked like iron bells as Alexander and I followed the heavy escort through the winding passages of the royal dungeons. The air was cool and damp, scented with moss and oil. Torches in iron sconces cast long shadows that flickered against stone walls scarred by centuries of confinement. My heart hammered with tense anticipation: this was the next step in our pursuit of justice.
Behind the iron portcullis, the corridor narrowed. Cells lined either side, their bars thick and cold. Through each barred window, I glimpsed faces—some resigned, some haunted, others curious at our arrival. Yet as I passed, no prisoner approached. The hush pressed on my ears, as though even the rats in the dark tunnels had fallen silent.
At the end of the corridor, Guard Captain Archibald halted. "Here, Your Highnesses," he said, pressing a large iron key into the lock. The gate swung open with a groan of protest.
