The descent into the foundations of the Vernhardt manor felt like a journey into the gullet of a beast. The air grew progressively colder, damp with the smell of weeping stone and the metallic tang of ancient, rusted iron. Duke Vernhardt moved with a predatory grace, the heavy ring of keys at his waist clinking with a rhythmic, sickening finality. Behind them, Varon stayed back in the shadows, his presence a silent reminder that the way up was barred.
Verona's heart hammered against her ribs. She had expected a confrontation, even a house arrest in a locked bedroom, but this subterranean chill was something else entirely. It was a statement of absolute ownership.
"Why are we down here?" Verona's voice was a low, dangerous vibration. "Liera is a lady of this house, not a prisoner. This is beneath even you."
