Edward and Seraphine moved toward the back of the convoy, falling in line with the Prince.
The tunnel that swallowed them was narrow, just wide enough for two to walk shoulder to shoulder. The stone pressed in on both sides, jagged walls glistening faintly with damp, the air thick with a faint metallic tang that clung to the tongue.
The convoy advanced in silence. Only the occasional scrape of steel against rock or the muted rustle of armour broke the stillness. Even the Prince, who had carried himself with light remarks and easy airs earlier, now walked wordless, his gaze fixed ahead with a sharp edge.
But as the minutes passed, the tunnel began to change.
The walls, once rough and uneven, grew steadily smoother. The ceiling arched higher.
Soon, the crags of stone were gone, replaced by polished surfaces that reflected the flicker of torches. The place felt less like a natural cavern and more like a corridor—deliberate, constructed, and undeniably ominous.
