*******
The dungeon smelled of damp stone, old blood, and wolfsbane. The torchlight flickered against the iron walls, casting long, warped shadows of the two boys chained to poles in the center of the room. Adrian Vale and Alistair Ashthorne were both stripped to the waist, their bodies battered, bruised, and slick with sweat. The air was thick with silence and suffering.
Adrian's chest heaved as he struggled to stay upright. His wrists were raw from the silver bindings, and every breath scorched his lungs. Across from him, Alistair's head was bowed low, his face barely visible beneath the curtain of blood-matted hair.
Magnus Thorn stood before them, cold and unrelenting, a canister of liquefied wolfsbane in one hand. Behind him, leaning calmly against the wall, Astrid Voss watched with unreadable eyes, her arms crossed as if she were merely observing a science experiment.
"You know what I hate?" Magnus began, stepping toward them with a slow, ominous grace. "Liars."
