Roga Roya left the last dungeon chamber and walked toward the first.
At first, nothing felt wrong.
The corridor was the same narrow stone passage it had always been. The air was thick. The walls were damp. His footsteps echoed in a familiar way, a sound he had heard countless times while dragging prisoners to their fate.
Then he reached the first chamber.
Normally, the crack of his whip against the bars would send the captives into chaos–moans, screams, begging. It used to excite him. It reminded him of his authority. It reminded him that everyone inside those cells was lower than him.
This time, the sound came out wrong.
Too dull.
Too empty.
And worse–no cries followed.
Instead, a stench drifted out of the chamber.
Rot.
Old bone.
Something that had forgotten how to be flesh.
His flame stick flickered once.
Then went out.
"Tch… Did they all die?" Roga muttered.
He stepped closer and snapped the bladed tip of his whip hard against the bars.
No clang.
No echo.
