Troy hesitated. He looked nervous, but one glance at Riven's face shut down any protest. "Alright. I'll lead you down."
The stone steps to the dungeon were narrow and cold, damp with years of moisture and neglect. The deeper they went, the more the air turned musty, like the breath of something that had long stopped living.
Riven didn't flinch. There was a certain joy he got to see that his father was kept in worse conditions on purpose. Ah, Ronan, such a good mate.
Those memories surged back to Riven's mind.
"Please, father! I didn't mean it! I won't do it again!"
Seven-year-old Riven's voice cracked as he scrambled backward, his small hands clawing at the smooth marble floor for something—anything—to hold on to. But there was no escape. A shadow loomed over him, tall, furious, and merciless.
