The dungeon was quiet in the way only old stone could be—silent, cold, unmoving. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rust, blood, and the slow decay of forgotten prisoners. Shadows clung to the walls like oil.
Lanard stepped through the arched doorway without hesitation. His boots made no sound on the uneven floor, each step measured, unhurried.
The faint torchlight barely lit the far corner, but he didn't need his eyes to know she was there.
Chains rattled faintly as his presence disturbed the stale air.
She hung there—barely more than a silhouette at first—her body supported only by manacles at her wrists. Her clothes were shredded, her hair matted with blood. Dried crimson streaked down her arms, legs, and face, an ugly testament to months of torment.
Her head hung forward until she sensed him drawing closer. Her voice was hoarse, broken from too many days of screaming and refusing to break.
