CHAPTER 133
The prisons rose before Mathew like a scar on the land. From the distance, the walls looked less like stone, blackened and weathered by centuries of storms. As he drew closer, the size of them dwarfed him. The walls stretched high, far above the trees, and the iron gates bore marks of repair, as though they had been broken and reforged countless times.
The horse snorted nervously, resisting the approach. Mathew steadied it with one hand, though his own stomach churned. The air here was colder than the road behind him. A sharp wind rushed down from the hills, carrying with it the faint clang of chains and the distant, hollow cry of something not quite human.
Two guards stood at the entrance, their spears crossed. They were wrapped in furs, faces stern and pale from years of the northern cold. When Mathew stopped before them, one raised his chin.
"No entry without writ."
