The iron doors groaned open, and cold air rushed through the underground corridor, carrying with it the scent of mildew, old blood, and rot. Barefoot and bruised, Everleigh was dragged out by her shackled wrists, her steps stumbling over cracked stone as two guards flanked her on either side.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
She knew what was waiting at the end of the corridor. Everyone did.
The courtyard loomed like a stage beneath a night sky choked with clouds. Flames from mounted torches danced across wet stone, casting grotesque shapes along the walls. The silence was thick — too heavy. Even the wind dared not whisper.
Slaves had been gathered. Forced to stand in a corner, heads down, eyes barely lifting. Their chains clinked softly, the only sound other than Everleigh's dragging feet.
Nicholas stood at the center of it all. Tall. Cold. Unbothered.
