The stink of iron and damp stone clung to the cell. The torch outside hissed against the draft, casting crooked shadows across the walls.
Aiden sat with his back to the cold bars, wrists chained, legs heavy with shackles. The weight didn't matter.
He had carried heavier burdens—his own damnation, the silence of gods, the blood of those who had fallen because of him.
The clank of armored boots shook the ground. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured to announce dominance before sight.
The Blood Commander arrived.
Seven feet of crimson steel, polished until the torchlight gleamed hellfire across the plates. His helm was tucked under one arm, revealing a scarred face, cropped hair, and eyes filled with the poison of envy.
The man reeked of power used too often, of cruelty sharpened into habit.
He stopped just outside the bars and smirked.
