"Well, well… what do we have here?"
The voice was deep, soaked in amusement that only made Rowan's jaw tighten. He lifted his head, his eyes locking on the man standing a few feet away. It's the same man who carried the weight of an old empire on his shoulders, with two guards shadowing his every step.
Rowan's wrists ached as he tugged against the chains, the cold metal biting deeper into his skin. The sound of iron clashing echoed through the damp, forgotten room like the rhythm of his own helplessness. Dust hung thick in the air, heavy enough to choke and beneath it all was the scent of rot and time.
"What's the meaning of this, Your Grace?" Rowan's voice was rough, mocking but steady. "Surely, His Grace Magnus wouldn't be too pleased to hear how you're treating me."
