The flickering torches along the dungeon corridor cast shifting shadows of gold and crimson across Vlad’s face. His striking features, so arresting they could be the last image one might conjure before death, seemed to draw the light and shadows around him into a mesmerizing dance. Yet, his expression was colder than the harshest winter night. Even Ivan held his breath, wary of breaking the silence.
Their footsteps halted before a heavy iron door, and Count Valks stepped forward to report.
“This is the ringleader,” he said. “We’ve apprehended the others as well, my lord.”
Before he could continue, a maniacal scream pierced the air from beyond the door.
“Vladimir de Winter, Duke of the Empire! How dare you wield your cursed power without an ounce of remorse or shame for your tainted blood?! Do you not fear the wrath of God? The imperial family will not let you plunge the empire into despair!”
