The Thorne vaults smelled of ash and iron.
Candles burned along the stone walls, their flames tinted green from the wards carved into the rock. Chains rattled faintly in the distance, though no one moved. The sound came from the weight of magic itself pressing down.
At the center of the vault sat Eron.
The chair beneath him wasn't a throne, but he treated it like one. Black wood, polished arms, high enough to lift him above the rest of the chamber. His fingers drummed slow against the armrest.
Before him, Reia hung bound at the wrists. Her blades were gone, her face bruised, but her eyes—half-open, half-burning—still carried defiance. Silas slumped beside her, metal shackles around both arms, his breathing rough. Vyn lay against the wall, shadows flickering faintly around her but weak, unstable.
Eron watched them the way a man might watch caged beasts. Not cruel, not even angry—just entertained.
