Alastair.
The cold, damp air of the dungeon was stifling, the faint echo of my footsteps reverberating through the stone walls as I made my way down the narrow, torch-lit corridor. The prisoner was waiting, and today, it was time for her to speak.
I stopped in front of her cell, pausing to gather my thoughts. I wasn't sure what I expected from her—defiance, anger, or maybe even fear. But I had learned one thing from my years in the field: prisoners were always unpredictable. They had the power to break, or they could hold onto their anger, making them more dangerous than any weapon.
I nodded at the guard standing nearby, and he unlocked the cell. The heavy door creaked open, revealing the woman—exhausted but defiant—sitting on the cold stone floor. Her amber eyes glinted with a sharpness that hadn't dulled, even in captivity.
"Get up," I ordered quietly, my voice steady, though I could feel the weight of this moment pressing down on me. This was a turning point.
