The dungeon was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into the bones, that made the air thick and heavy, like death itself lingered in the shadows. Water dripped from the cracked stone ceiling, slow and deliberate, each drop echoing through the empty chamber. The scent of damp earth mixed with something more pungent—blood, sweat, and the lingering stench of fear. Drystan stood still, his shoe planted firmly on the stone floor. The only light came from the torches lining the walls, their flames flickering, casting eerie shadows that danced along his sharp features. He said nothing. He only watched his presence oozing danger. Kneeling before him was the man who had dared to dream of betraying him. Not by selling him out. No, this was worse. He had tried to ally with Luthos, a sworn enemy while keeping a foot with him. He had believed, foolishly, that he could stand on two sides at once. Now, he knelt in the filth of the dungeon, his hands bound behind his back, his face bruised and b
Huling Na-update : 2025-02-21
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